It is not a mirage. This;
it is vital they share the same blue
veins under their pale veil. But they breathe different
airs.             To live, is to learn how
to rejoice with paresthesia
causing liquor down your throat
and be in the stupor without feeling
stupid.
Stupors feel better
lucid
and this, this all feels better in sleep.

Break all of my bones in a rhythmic fashion
                  so it's musically satisfying to feel the tiny fragments crack and resonate within the closed walls of my skin
Blood turned cold as the words spat back at me,
            as cold as the floor I laid upon,
Fixated with fear,
            vibrating fingers held true to the stifled senses

Pink slipped and no longer dredging,
       fervency was sprinkled along the gates of the unexplored,
Exchanges so sheer and uninviting,
             freezer burned words meet the cold shoulder in return
Extraneously overused,
                   the body will drop to alteration,
Just a daub on the road map that paves the way through your existence,
       drumming fingers along the collarbones to off put the beating of an unforgiving chest.

automation passes
through my membranes,
as humiliation escapes
a populous civilization.

parasthesia menstruates
within my arteries,

as sinsitivities i once expressed,
evaporates inside pulsating veins,
generating a fictitious momentum.

breath exits through my membranes,
lips murmur numerous echoes.

universe remains bewildered
by my asinine conversation,
as i persistently linger within
a cocoon absent of beloved visitors.