anxiety no longer bound, she runs out of words, cannot finish conversations, she stares into spaces, scattered; fragments flitter in her head, a familiar name misplaced, a point lost to a tangent, her memory sheds, she views herself- dizziness, fear, she seeks...
the drone of micromanagement, in quarter-hour installments, each created to contradict, they layer them, a cake, to celebrate. doubt becomes belief, own the fault, the pieces of the puzzle fall into a pattern, a plan, mean-spirited, worthy of a Scottish wife, with a complement of false concern. a blight of human kindness.
I used ink pens for a while, the kind that cause odd black orbs
inbetween the covers, the stains of still-birthed poems. They resist laundering, sayinglet there be a marking that we existed. Only for a while, only in your head, no time for paper, we were perfect. But without memory, allow us to remain a tribute to your mid-night creations.