fingertips against
a glass pane, smothered.
paint drips from the ceiling,
peeling back its exoskeleton.
it's bare, rooted in rotting wood.
let me in.
i could do it forever.
one ounce of indiscretion is tortuous,
but it is my remedy. guitar strings are strummed
in the closet and the drums
were not ready for their awakening.