it is all tenseness and that strange unfurling feeling that tingles and burns at the palms of your hands. it's measured breaths, each one eight seconds apart, as if to say look, see here, my body is still under my control.
except you cannot control the quick thumps of your heart.
but who would hear that unless their ear were pressed to your chest?
be worn
like a frayed shoe whose sole has worn away
be empty
like a jam jar, traces left on the sides, but never enough to make something from it
be quiet
like a midnight hour that never sleeps
it would have been better to just turn the lamp off, close the book, turn over and fall into gray dreams.
it would have been better to dream of a midnight that sleeps.
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