i scroll through fast and rapid,
the skin glimmers, this vision grows static.
there's so much but words,
phrases coming undone.

right up ahead, on the screen a blurry mess —
who poured this bundle of ache?
let it ferment, for how many years, give or take?
what'd you call it, even?

for when it sizzled, was brought to a boil,
left to deliver
the champagne of poems.
coming from where, written by who?
who takes over, why do you still have pending drafts
and more ache to go through?

and there's pieces, bits of clammy memories
that make the hands go sweaty,
and even the keyboard moans: stop, please, let us go.

endgame's a folder of a hundred or so —
put them in the archives, hide or delete them all.
but it exists, once did, so, and again;
you can't escape goodbyes,
or the wine i deliver to you.

it's only once a day,
up and about, swivelling on a roundabout.
sit and spiral, watch it all go viral.

they speak in lies and telltales,
myths and riddles for namesakes,
whispering madness — there's eighty of them and growing.

glass half full, or is it empty still? way to see it.
is it the negative's optimistic?
uff, they continue, watch them relive what they outgrew.

i guess there's fun in nostalgia,
so i sit and read all that i've posted.
(god, it's cringe, but who even wrote them?)

shut them down, the calls.
do you wish to see the drafts, the originals? i've got them all.
there were words, even the more direct truths
that didn't make it here; i don't think they ever could.
but there's an entire diary
that speaks for all what they mean or intend to.
so if there's any snooping, check for the hooks and crannies —
it shines like the dark during daytime,
existing despite the words and mistaken summaries.

and when the bottle is empty, and there's no free-flowing,
accept me done, having disappeared and faded to none.
for it'll be a goodbye, one i beckon;
i don't wish to see it coming — not anytime soon.