The stars keep blinking out,
shuddering and shuttering
in their wounded worlds,
wrapping unseen landscapes
in black,
shimmering once
and exploding into
a nothing so vast
it exists only in
not existing.
Each breath
folds against the next
and small pieces
fracture into atoms,
particles of
sadness and blackness
and it runs into floors,
full speed
instead of faltering,


Collisions bloom
and master your refrigerated stares,
your empty gazes
that lie
and fuck
and destroy
my skin,
my arms,
my heart,
all the images
reflected in your eyes,
those memories
ricocheting against
pain and joy and loss and contentment.

Who are we but fractions
built upon halves,
upon chunks of nostalgia
raining from our
silver-plated eyes?

Who are we but slivers
turned into wholes?



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