You are smudged edges, you are radioactive ghosts,
and my tie is the rope that you pull for-or—ward.
I am in the circles of asphyxiation, I am loud, pounding
pangs of silence. Open-mouthed screams hold no appreciation
for rhythm, so I scream myself dry for an appeal
to the falling.
Your haunting cloud-eyes are oil creases
into the seeing glass, and the mud from your feet
still stains the floors I walk. I hear sighs from the walls
like I always do; some nights are best for conversations
conversing in sighs.
Some nights I breathe in sleeplessness.