the scratching of pencil on paper sounds like
how your nails scrape words over my dry
skin in the dim light. reminiscence is essential.
beyond the window grilles, there is
nothing but silence.

so i manifest noises by tapping
my feet against the smooth parquet or
by standing near clocks to hear their hands
tick away. it is more
comforting than it should be.

if you could feel my anxiety, or drink
in all my nervousness, then you would
understand— why i am always unsure.

i believed too much in gods and luck.
my spirit is limited in a case of
transparent hope,
tinted by whispers which haunt
me to no end.

and so tells the story of how i came
to stop believing.

- - -