there’s
a cat. her name is Jena. I still whisper—like flame like confetti or emotional pantomimes.
some gesture for attention, as valued incorrectly—we’re not supposed to beg!
there’s a granny, shroud in panic—she hates nightsong; such dark lisps such susurrous underpinnings—I see her swatting voices.
on to sharing, as some dynamic, while it aches to watch; or trust like vacuums where one must perform. sour brain waves or glorious absence where joy feels like irresponsibility. upon a tablet so mapped for moments while agendas must be visited daily. by science of screams or metaphysical dreams—how to make sense of interiority? most find it escapable where reality is salient or properties are for microscopes. our emotions are valuable. they censor callousness. they also imbue our arts. but so thick into thistle brush where feelings are some nuisance.
there’s glass in gardens, little gnomes, such mental gravity. a woman lives out her screams. a man lives out his borrowed time. they both are wrestling raw anger.
it becomes simplistic genius or strange luck while we try to account for consistence.
so close we can’t hear, or so close we never listen, or so uninvolved we love each other.
like a brochure as to advertise our hurt where many are passing our deaths: those catacombs our burial sites where sensory is open but eyes are closed.
