The sunflower dreams disintegrate, leaving dust. I see you there through the plexiglass wall, and wonder if you can see me too. The wax drips from the tip of the candle. Five spots, six-seven. Nine. I burn for you. The red runs crimson down my thigh. I reach for you through my condemned klonopin haze. Once again, I was too weak for you. The pressure builds, forming cracks in my psyche, making me wonder who I am or where Iβm going.
Blank spaces. The canvas between white and black, the words that donβt fill the spaces in between I love you. And I donβt know what you want me to do, so I sit outside and chain smoke and listen to the birds who are confused, because itβs raining. Iβm sick, you say, as if that straightens out the jumble in my mind. Weβre solving the worldβs problems one puff of nicotine at a time.
