A heady glance mirrors the circles and rectangles,
and watches as the ceiling fan pushes words out of hand.
The pinching, cramping, drooping reminds me
that I’m a statue long forgotten amongst good intentions.
That languid tip-tongue and incense
can burrow into slabs and the vellum spines;
opinions turned eons of dog-eared process, but never
birth graphite or wired dictum.

Fingertips and teeth ache with anticipations and antiphony,
while my bones tap empty with the lonely familiarity.
This is a sickening relationship we have, I say,
while the vertical facades cry the sunset.
We made up these whims, you yell, as I swing and scrape,
these plastic vacancies of desperation
I insist my dust will dull the scratches I left there months ago.
Evening motes reverberate my scream,
my declaration
that I can’t stand this textured palimpsest any longer.

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