tiptoeing past the mossy graves you told me all the reasons why this dewy day was lost in translation and how glass was made by fusing sand but thats never going to be tangible unless that cigarette drag is smoother and the billowing smoke stings my eyes making them water and i will cry out for some anonymous object to come and sanctify my chipping flesh but your glare when you speak excavates the dirt that permeates in the mausoleums in my heart catacombs that hold all the secrets