faces of those I've known
burned to the crust of my conscience.
I'd eat it with butter and jam
scraped onto its surface
wishing each bite would be my last.

I think about how there's more to touch
than what fingertips can hold.
spaces between bones close,
I feel white hot needles
between the cells of my blood.

time crumples under the weight
of my vision of you.
it's a waste- and I kind of hate it.

so cliché.

if only there was more

than

this gross abundance of parallel experiences
drawn infinitely, never intersecting.