a two-sided notebook paper rant dedicated just to me.
there is no rhythm to the remembering, / no time or space or elaborate calling
words are fraying tethers.
I thought of the end and / I met it for what it was.
Her snail’s pace is patience, thrumming through the rooms where I try to exist.
inches from the nowhere drain
hound the ones with rounded edges
it took a year for it / to die, shelled and / alone in a far corner of / the unkempt living room.
descend and dissolve
like placing paper / to the flame.