• When I say climbing towards the sun burns patches the size of melons in my cheek, a butterfly remark pokes fun at the different shades of blue.
    I could say I see as I watch her push blocks on their sides just for the sound they make, but my patience shows in my lack of interest.
    Or a choice to swallow or choke on these words with three second intervals your only support.
    When you swallow you'll lose a part of yourself right there.
    Take a breath of the same size and follow trails of hair to the cellar door where they catch spiderwebs.
    A couple of pieces were dropped and I can't catch air for prices, for time to tamper in stories of its success.
    As I look down from my bed on to a vessel shaking against a breaking wave.
    I also see my reflection in a glass of water, a motion is captured.
    I wonder if I'll find a ladder down today.
    Dashes, or numbers burn my soles, I heard her remember the scratches from yesterday.
    This mountain to climb for a chair, my feet are sick of kicking up sand.
    Which burst is sorriness, which is the storm?
    Deductively speaking I wanted to let you know what I was busy telling this wall.
    And for the times I try to, I try to tell you which one I land on in the end.
    Running blind circles around you, you simply went to sleep, spinning in your web.
    I wonder if I can push me down just like sleep under a shallow deck, a place I'd crawl to when I knew it was about to end.
    In order to be by myself for a moment, a second of expansion and its reduced visitation.
    Gazing outward, I'd see everything in allowance and turmoil and someday I'd die like these sick old mice.
    Seconds before its collapse I'd find a corner to face, if only for a second for a second it's over.
    You know where my hands are the imputation, unable to profit from this distribution.
    The sound of this abrasive impact on these nails, a chorus of rotting wood, a panel to simper in.
    I could say I am thinking of comfort in this art, and in what I say my back is turned away.
    Running blind, these tiny circles I trace in footsteps are deepening, a depression in quicksand.
    A shallow pool to bathe my muddy hands in.
    Destroy my cycle picture perfect circle and run, run to show everybody what it's like to be free.
    Which one will I chose to deface as an apology for leaving it there in the first place?