you rinsed my skin of night,
and pulled scabs from the heart.
but even now,
i sit around calculating on how i will unravel;
and how terrifically slow i expect it to burn.
already weak
from the wait of you leaving,
i can feel the quiet becoming me.
[while a sway on the hinges of sleeplessness…]
‘each night is a tree to hang from.’
words
