an old friend of mine
keeps paying me visits
in the early hours of the
morning when the dogs bark.

she is here now,
swirling her pale finger through
my hair, trampling mud through
my trembling synapses.

she traces over my scars, smiling
she reels the shrieks out of my trachea
she carefully collects the tears from
my jawbone and adds them to her murky hourglass.

i try to tell her i can't
play now, i have things to do,
but we both know that itself
is the reason for her visit.