it becomes unbearable, the waiting game.

Summer is gone amid thunder and lightning and i just cant tell if in this slope i'm standing in i'm facing up or down
(she chose down, said the helping hands)

I am older than you, than dirt, than the teeth of my grandmother. I am not old enough to feel old but i feel age creeping on me like a bug on a tree branch

there are scars, and then there are scars

and really, i've forgotten how to write. i am empty, everything is empty and i am lost and it is desert; desert everywhere like a great grey glass

and there are no stories inside of me, resounding in the box of my head. waiting and moving but not going anywhere not knowing where to go. there is memory, but nothing i want to remember. the thing i want, more than anything, more than aching, is to know how to fold myself up in myself and write around and around just out of me

it's like, like
well

i have felt it. blind, i have touched it with delicate brushes of fingers, felt it's texture on my cheek, the tickle of it on my palate.

it's the wanting to sing and the lacking of songs