This night is going backwards
as I entomb and eat all of my words.
We're not vigilant anymore
and I wish I wasn't aware of it anymore.
I shattered our animated screen
and am practicing remaining carefully unseen.
I'm grasping at loose strings with loose fists
and burying the things I've kissed and moments I've grievously missed.
I'm learning how to be detached
and to manage these vibrantly mundane daily tasks
and recognizing a resonantly unseemly girl
monitor my reflection which unfurls
into some unrecognizable mask
and I dress myself in a costume of a cloak
that's a joke to poke around at
but still clings to my body and to my memory like some ancient artifact.
How about that?
And is this all because you are weak?
No, I think it's because I am weak.
And so we attempt to refrain from our harrowing fumes.
Somehow you're inhaling our fumes,
detached in solitude somewhere on our atlas.
You're oblivious to the fact that I'm deflating to nothing.
But it's whatever.
It's nothing.