the night has slipped from the tips of my fingers,
finding solace in bottomless sweaters
sleeves that swallow hands
and mouths that swallow
bourbon brooks
trickling through a loss of consciousness.
i yearn on winter bones for the loss of knowledge;
a slow mind,
and sweaty delirium.
i want to watch my finger nails go purple
from malnutrition, seeping into the cracks of an old house-
to become an eighteenth century ghost
and i'd measure my heart breaks in dust.
when the world falls away;
and it falls away often-
i find solace in thinking that nothing can amount to nothing
and one day you all will be as i am.

a thin willow wisp,
a frayed cardigan
  a story that was once told and lost through years of
the telephone game;
while the rich culture faded with every new tongue