streams of light crawl under the door and through three windows: left reeling as though wound out on a thousand lines, fallen from last night, later on, before, and this bed is too large. even if i hang over both ends, there's still too much space here.
the depletion drags tracks, eleven kilometers end to end, how does this end? not contained in this emptiness, surely? i am too incomplete to halt now; but we surely perish in slower cities.
we all die in a small town.
losing conscious life, i walk down the hallway, arms cradling a bowl of rain water, carrying animacy to where your eyelids still pretend to breathe.
i reach the room, and find myself waiting, find you missing.