numerouslegs

she has a telescope, thats always pointed at the ceiling - so she can carefully chart the walls as they cave in, pencil in the rotation, ascension. & honestly ? it feels like it's been two sixteen for days. the sun claws bleeding over the horizon & then submits to slipping back again, but she's in a constant state of awkward interlude. like a question mark, she poses herself to each hopeful morning, but feels no less ill at ease than all the times she wakes at 2, at 3, at 4. the night is red and woollen then, with an uncomfortable weight like something caught in the back of one's throat. she feels like she has spent her who

i see photographs of you & hold the shape of your body in my breath - desperate distressed downward slide, voice ricocheting off the sides of my throat, shuddering out in these jumps, these plateaus. your face makes me flinch smile awkwardly against the past & on the livingroomfloor i tell a thousand stories of my few regrets with a dry cigarette between my floury teeth, cough cough coughing, but continuing, to have something to do with my hands. down to the filter i smoked you & i saved you in the packet so i didnt pollute. he's an asshole, she says, & she uncrosses her legs, my glasses are reflected in hers hes not a- no,