We
The
Fallen

the less I
know.

i know
a soul
that has a poem
writing inside her.

among other things,
it has written me down, there,
on the backside of her third rib.

i, consumed
by a certain peculiar meanderlust,
curl up
along its
metamorphic edge:
riding those finishing strokes
that forever code your own typeface as such.

Maybe It's an off day,
or maybe It's something more?
Maybe I'll go another year
without writing a word more.

I thought I was getting better,
maybe It's just the weather?
Maybe I'll never get it right,
but maybe I'll never pull it together.

Maybe we're on a break,
or maybe we're done forever.
So many questions
and my only response is "whatever".

I just want to be happy.
I just want to think clear.
I'm tired of living by a life or death choice.
I'm tired of living in fear.