from the balustrade, the canopy,
comprised of leaves and rooftops and
a diminishing colour-set above
tastes of retreat. familiarity.
she came down to my level,
spelling out instabilities and inscrutinabilities,
like a vague ruffle sent through
harmonious and imperfect hairlines:
this slight haze of separation,
a delicate circling
lust, the vulture of the ninth;

lying in wait, i sit, still,
in the corner, watching the
ceiling for hours,
singing sadnesses like,
oh no, it won't happen this way,
when have i ever learnt?
winning's a single blackout, but
i'm still awake,
still stuck stuck stuck stuck,
already given up and out.
still awake, seven
hundred and fourteen days,
a list of crimes, a handful
of loose opinions, a
devastating need;

never had i felt as if
i couldn't live, without
something i never meant to
want, this much.

with rainfall, she rescinds,
she's discovered i am but dust.

from dust, i'm made rain.