Maybe the golden rings of disabling
The drip of muffled unorganized thought
Scattering through rooms
Will inevitably disappear
Allowing the graceless act
Shuffling our feet on abandoned low tides
Peaking at each rising moon

Somehow hope gives weight
To the rationality that nostalgia will re root itself in present where the slip of fragmented parrallels will reverse
And I will get my body back

I just want to hold you
I don’t want your hands to tender each
Purple sore even more
I just want the pulsing to stop
And drag your body back down
To the hard wood floor.