the feeling is round and familiar, resurfacing knots--contorting my muscles and producing water from my empty holes. the tiredness of ache cascades like aquatic notes, what is left of such old news? what hurt can be squeezed from a plum dry as stone? the pit in my stomach tells me you are as real as the slenderness of my fingernails and that you live buried deep in the breaches of my heart. dull pounds and what for? why even document these lonely nights when your ancient and wooden voice lulls me down into quicksand? I sit while you beckon and call to me "lovely" and you make me cry for hours and you never come.
mystery, intrigue, infatuation, have moderate half lives--I have seen them all they are knuckles without girth and I have outgrown them
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