Morphine Drip
all the wishing stars
have been blown out.

she winks from eye
to eye and watches
vision flicker, stars
sway side to side
like the pendulum
of a grandfather clock.
tick tock
time passes her by.

in the shower,
she leans against
tile and lets steam
smother her; its blur
disassembles every shape
into endless
vacancy (like falling
out of orbit).
she leaves the water running.

music doesn't matter
anymore; her memory lacks
soundtrack and choreography.
she doesn't mind
when the singer runs out
of breath; she often runs
out herself (like clockwork: inhale
to exhale, inflate to deflate—
yet somehow she keeps
forgetting).

she loves the snow:
erasure of color and dimming
to the twinkle of starry
nights—pitch black, indigo,
and silver like the tips
of flame. winter wonderland
encapsulates the numbness
in her bones. she watches
snowflakes flutter hazily
out of nothingness and draws
snow angels until she's buried
in the drifts.