Every year seems to misremember.
Every year seems to forget you.
A reflection of my past to carry until dirt.
a glass or paper portrait bathed in television.
was it of disease or of bone?
we spent concave nights on couches,
and a few more in the door,
hesitant and undecided.
Let it gather dust, leave it still.
Scripted laughs got in the way of the ticking air.
What was left to do but wait and watch.
the clock's hands wrapped and pulled,
nothing we could do.
your hell is my own,
every year, i feel it creep close,
i can't outrun an inheritance of rust.
my palms glazed with your sweat,
the same gap between my brain and tongue.
You exist nowhere and in mirrors.
Show me what wasn’t.
Show me what will be.