I've gone out like a firefly. Quiet in the perfect perfect-ness of the rain.

(quiet quiet quiet) I have been. Not here. I am not.

Paper and photographs and candles (and music, always never). A moon in my
pen and my scissors in hand. (They slip while eyes are busy blinking.) Let
all my misery bleed out through one violated fingertip.

At least my attempts are good for something.
Inhaling smoke tastes better than the resentment on my tongue. (Silver
against teeth, and sometimes I put my hair in my mouth.) The edge of my
favourite pen. The edge of the sky outside. Anything to keep from hearing
my own voice (which is strangely small and wavering compared to the sky
outside).




.. and I'm somehow in the middle of this. Some sort of odd, misplaced cloud.

Undreaming