it's a mess that never goes away,
growing in all directions.
north, south, east, west.
towards the sky and down below the floor,
below the ground.
i stare into my boxes
they seem watery and slurred.
it couldn't be true -
(no, not, not ever) a trick.
illusory; gases bending in rising heat
there's no necessity, only ephemera.
conversations never finished
piled high atop
pieces of lost things and
useless bits atavistically found, forgotten.
and i am sorry. i'm sorry.
'i am so sorry.'
pockets filled with my hair, my skin
and yours. ritualistic emptying.
but i remain inundated, weighed down.
'this is just the way you live and choose to be.'
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