most nights I feel okay enough to die. the nights I don’t feel that way are the ones that frighten me
I’m getting used to these mornings without you. the stagnant hours, the last speckles of darkness before your arrival. that’s when I talk to myself, when I talk to the speckles. we discuss things that don’t concern you. we hide them, we tuck them away in drawers and under pillows before you get here. and then you intrude. such a pesky rabble-rouser. instigator. seeker of secrets
give me some more time. I’m just beginning to compromise with the voices in my head. not that we’ve made any significant progress either way. but the systems are in place, and your rainbow contributions are scaring away the intricacies of our recently established quasi-solutions
buoyancy - the enabling of rest and unrest without the adherence to direction. you’re a god or a devil, greedy at the tooth, resplendent by design. but why travel all this way to act as a spatial undertow when you know damn well I’ll only burn up upon reentry
(image by Bock Felix on https://daylight.academy)
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