XVIII.

heavy lungs.
filled with concrete dust.
empty eyes.
staring sightlessly
at the great wide nothing.
ringing ears.
too many explosions.
i am a sinking frame offering its poetry but listen, it is the just the yawning sound of sickness —

withering heart.
withering mind.
don't know what to feel.
don't know what to think.
i don't know who i am.

cut me and i would just deflate, bloodless —

you know who i am.
i am the fire and you are what it means to burn.
i am nothing without you.
and where are you?
by the way, where are you?
i am falling.

you see me, we have decided this —
and you love me, it has been a topic of conversation —
and you're here, you have not gone —

but better to fall into a black hole holding your hand
than to walk around like this.

i want to be your remnant.
i want nothing more.
my whole heart wants you, you. you — you —
you —
will you come home and stop this pain tonight?