the chords of night are strummed only when your fingers claw at the linoleum and the hum of silence rises taut and suffocating around you. imagine the earth takes back the concrete and vines erupt through the cracks and burst through the floor and climb the walls like you wish you could and send the foundation crumbling into irreversible devastation. when you next open your eyes everything will be coated in the dust of amnesia and the skeletons of civilization forever suspended in anticipation will mirror the hollow-eyed, open-mouthed stare of wolves, steel teeth waiting to tear into the flesh of the sky. remember that you are the one that built the city, dreamt spires and bridges and endless loops of cobblestone promise. you let the arches turn spotted white with age and let the streets quake and the statues fall to their knees.

it is your fault you are a moribund wreck.

stars hang from wires wrapped around your fingertips and you have foolish hope for your creation, this fabrication of hungry imagination, untouched by the unsettling animosity of doubt that comes with reality. you blow into the cup of your palm and hot air balloons like fireflies scatter upwards and out. ribbons of smoke billow from your temples and stretch to float above the phantom noise of this tiny whirlwind city, a scape of glass cars and brick trees. for a moment, you lose focus in the idea of what it'd feel like to hang the balls of your feet from the rooftop ledge, to spread your arms and give your body back. forget how to balance and plunge into non regrette.

that is, until you remember the city is not real. that once your eyelids flutter open, the rubble cannot lie and you are flat on your back in the ruins of your pretend.

disingenuous, he says.

the wires cut hard into your fists and stars are fleeting, anyway.

all you ever are is sincere.