this, only a feeling,
or time demanding to be owned,
desiring occupation
for its relevance is something
that space tenders us.

amongst the peerless lampposts
stabbing the silence with
daggers of light bent to
infinite smallness, so breakable
and so falsely fabulated, is this
scene demanding a name:
flooded are the elliptical interstices my heart's waysides, close to bursting
with waters rendering me repetitions of ablutions, pain is as thorough as a mother meticulously
thwarting dust off of sacred things.

these abated breaths rehearse
their oblivions.
these hands pardon their
callouses for holding too tightly,
the craggy exterior of something
that quavers to be freed.
and the soul turns to leave,
crossing a fine line of distance,
midway pivots to squint at a still vibrant recollection then
pretends as if
nothing has happened.