mulduan

you are not the first to wear the same beckoning, calling skin your fine edges annulling my roots,        and i don’t think you were the first to Kill.     Kill what once was     a ticking pocket watch, an echo     heard only by one     now ticking for fallen ears. It does hurt to see things die, but there is a certain satisfaction In having washed hands

it's been too often, now, since the ending of august (such a tense lapse of time, i know, with the unabashed sibilance in its watery, freeze-frame gifts) that i've sliced the yolks of my fingertips open on the cruel, gloriously shadowed edges of humming dragonfly spears barges of wind and regretted, nyctophilic euphoria: undiluted, frightening, and dazedly absentminded. i sustain myself on angry, vacillating uncertainty, fraught with the palpable elements of amorphous, aging air; caught between the two names he carries within shameful stigma, breeding in lecherous water stained with the spines of crumpled daisies. nihilism always breaks me,