somewhere in manhattan, atlas carries the weight of his heart — a suitcase of battle scars and cigarettes that strayed too far from his lips.
each vein, a thread for all these sorry poems that cannot write themselves. each valve, a compartment for spent lights and all these fallen dandelion clocks — all centuries' worth and his body, it longs to rest like a mass of dahlias and complexities, coming undone in the arms of a funeral song.
i remember someone telling me it's easier to talk about yourself in third person.
and yet, how do you depersonalize and say that in there, sadness has lovingly grown its flesh — like wild grass spreading free in abandoned lawns, albeit carefully contained, carefully covered by these patches of skin so as to not flood — to not spill at every sigh and yet, there can never be enough breaths taken, breaths given away
to keep it all intact, to fend off all the pecking, the gnawing at the skin from its forgotten corners, now a feast to a flight of vultures.
i now know why it's easier to talk about yourself in third person.
somewhere in manhattan, atlas shakes, crumbles, collapses. the flesh gives in; the arms cave in under all this mass: this weight of a heart, this weight of the skies — they just slip right off your hands and words don't see the difference.