Metamorph(osis/ology)

Lips gripping paper and swirls of small smoke, lighter fluid, cotton. It rained today a month I, caught in it, thought of a small stuffed dog I bought you. Haven. Maybe I'll move far away. Maybe they don't know mr there. Maybe I tell them stories of my scars. Maybe I learn to drive.

"You're not listening."

"Can't you see I wrote down everything you ever told me?"

"You don't hear me."

"Don't you know the sound of your own voice?"

"I miss you."

"I'm losing weight and havent slept."

Maybe I get sick, maybe I am healthy. I name things til odd hours of the morning. I disassemble my thoughts, patch work back together, seam ripper, sewing needles. You can make ink with cigarette ash if you want.

"Its late."

"But the sun's up."

"Eat something."

"What's it mean for an object to be non spatial?"

I hear I'm happy and that life is good. I hear things are going well and I'm going somewhere. I light a candle and let the wax pool.

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