i drink my last
and watch your shape through the glass
the persuasive nature of that mosaic
still sneaking sips as crisp as apple cinnamon
speaking snippets in the mist, i’m listening
you live in villages adorned in little trinkets
i wonder if they think of your lips
and begin to grin again

the day i found myself inside
the gentle graveyard of your eyes
i feel a certain sense of longing
for an analog state of mind
the rims around the windows dimmed
by grey clouds passing by
we serve to remind each other
why we chose to die

choice words with the bots at work about the weather.
they tell me the moisture makes their joints stick together.
they want to wait until the rain passes
so we collect overtime and talk about cassius.

steam-powered, i’ve seen the towers
both of them, miles and miles and miles
and miles and miles away
i keep checking everyday

the last remaining captive
tentacles splayed, stretching across the canvas
scratching at scabs and still stranded
building sandcastles with a shredded mast

i changed lanes
like the sound of tension on a metal chain
i guess there just wasn’t space for me
looking up from the ground at the shelf
with all the books you’ll never read