the faces of people are too alive
for my empathy to thrive.

haggard attempts to feel sad,
in the faces of people who are losing and have lost,
in the faces of people of loss,
in the faces of people.

but on the bed's ledge,
the pillow with it's stitching unravelling,
oh, it pushes over the edge.

the people of loss
have nothing on us,
pillows with unravelling floss.

only the pillow knows,
a pedestal for weakness,
our shared bygones.

i know only how to be needed,
i know no want.

the phone does not work both ways,
my line has been cut.

do you need me? i'll never know.
can you hear me? i speak from the gallow.

there's no ears to play the broken telephone.

when the last light is out,
when all the shadows coalesce
to form a path of quiet in the dark,

i haunt the halls better than any ghost,
i hold shadows dear more than most.

only in that twilight i let my hunger roam,
appetite too large for the crevices of a wakeful home.

i wish you weren't scared of my famine,
i wish you would learn how to eat me
with something
other
than
a
knife.

i would hand you a scalloped dessert spoon,
and you could pry my shell open,
like the kitchens biggest prize.

and i thought we said,
"we don't go these lengths for people",
and yet here i am,
right before your finish line.

lately life feels like an invisible fire,
doused in methanol,
hot on my heels.

so, Vigiles, lay into me a firebreak,
right down my spine,
quench the fiery blood.

make me a dormant hearth full of cinder,
promise me to colder nights.

just don't forget to bring a match,
i'll be the spark to your thatch.

i relate in body parts,
because my words fall short of hearts.

i relate, in knowing we both have twelve pairs of ribs,
the same way you and i have the curve to our hips.

i relate, in knowing your ulna runs down my radius,
the same way my thumb runs down your humerus.

i relate, in knowing how our teeth align,
the same way you compliment my design.

so i nest my mandibula,
in the crevice of your scapula,
set my rhythm to the countdown of your vertebra.

i relate, in knowing a pair of lips doesn't make two,
not unless they meet as me and you.