grasped rarely, her hands
wrinkled and falling apart at the seams
move briskly as she walks
and when she waltzes, they seem to
die like dove wings
only to reincarnate into something
more removed from reality
when she moves them as she talks

isn't it strange? how I wish I had those hands
each vein replicated
in an effort to capture the quality that
perhaps something like me
can be used and worn in as time chugs along
instead of looking young and unscathed
instead of grasping themselves
instead of being more fleshy than a
home grown peach: let me have this.

busted open, boring and lazy
sometimes, occasionally, rarely, maybe
I think I'm going crazy
but in a lacklustre kind of way
without zeal, a wet firework display
smoke and steam splaying itself into
tiny fragments. an awful scent left behind,
like petrichor but poisonous, angry clouds
making noise for the sake of it. nature
pales me in comparison to others;
occasionally, rarely, maybe
perhaps sometimes
it snatches the words out of my mouth
and places them in some
newfound place in my brain
rarely, occasionally,
it fills my spine with cold river currents
sometimes, maybe
I feel my body shift and tumble
replaced in parts like an old car
and rarely, but sometimes on occasion, maybe
I look down at myself and don't see myself at all.

occasionally at night, I
traverse into the thoughts in my mind
occasionally, sometimes, I
leave my body to enter other times
occasionally, but actually rarely, I
cloud my head with thoughts that
keep me up at night
occasionally, unrelatedly, I.

and I mean to create a story:
softly but not kept tight
book bound at night under candlelight
hands quivering as they hover over each page
and I meant to create a story:
that shuffled each length of every parable and allegory
philosophers gazing in every pore and hole,
minds swimming in worry
termites burrowing through the sea,
white pages blooming into me
and I created a story:
nothing for others to see
full of holes and spots and too many
unsiphoned, unending untruths in each seam
words flowing over and out of my hands
trepidation shutting it closed
putting it back underhand

hello? relative listlessness says
greeting myself and my other selves
bringing them together with twine
and setting it alight

anyone? clouds of words siphoned underneath
my feet, too many eyes that I find myself, strangely,
unable to meet
alone and afloat, submerged in the sea
simultaneously sinking and floating in
groups of threes
matching my heartbeat
making my mouth sweet

there? the ocean bed I never expected to see
nothing in my line of sight, so perhaps,
there wasn't really anything ever to see
voice bounds off into the periphery
between the boundary of things I try to meet
but can never reach