is it possible to feel too much? evening's incendiary is syncopated in the way of a toddler, stumbling on fountains but always desiccated, reminiscent of a fractured stage and crumbling voices. everything implores from cavities of light(like hurt), vicinities and vicinities fluctuate. our lackluster eyes grow blank. we fill the bellows of our lungs with smoke, our thoughts become faint and diaphanous, skeletons.
cannot know how much, in those last hours, we wish for the brave resilience of autumn. frail hearts fail to capture what little of october persists(crickets chirp and we swallow the crumbs of stillness' blizzard, choking). our hands decompose with flowers into irrevocable shattering; we dream in static, dying. our vitality is quick(a mirror, a relic of what we wish the world to be), every scream and every laugh and dance something of an inadequate apoptosis-- our cancer spreads swiftly. feet grow hard of frostbite, the moon plummets fleetingly with the tide(limbs retract, linked, we forget because there is nothing to remember.) we excavate shadows, we become them.
this, and this.