Blue little veins dance along wrists and crowd hands like traffic on busy streets, and I think about your voice when you’ve just pooled into sleep and I realize it’s a bit like the flowing of blood that never stops. “have I ever told you,” you’d whisper before dipping your head into sleep like black paint and I never did get to hear what never did leave your lips but still aches within me like sizzling coal. the streets are thread I am trying to sew back together with stop sings and green lights turning my fingers numb because I can still feel the poison of your voice in my blue little veins