Trær

Every minute I drank to keep myself from drowning
caught up with this hand and crept down this cotton;
uniform in motion but silent in treatment
a downward crawl into blank state;
I sit snapping and wearing these empty hallows
endearing them to artificial light;
sickened by my unwillingness to comply
and tired of the aura I create;

simply unscathed but--bleeding nails
more proof of stress than wearing entails.

When in paris we ate nothing,
and I tried on the shoes of a transient traveler, but with each step the soles felt newer.
I tried to imagine this raven haired girl's childhood. Sipping tea and slipping diction to a mother. I imagine her bathroom has an ivory sink, the window outside cluttered with flowers. The kind of sun that you want to bath in, not this breed which burns and tears at eyes. She sits chatting with her friends on the metro, I stare at the reflection of my uncombed hair.
When in england, at your house, I feel nothing,
and I try to understand why.
I held your hand and it felt like a burden, it felt like there was need; the breed of need you get from a stranger.
We sat silent a lot. You frowned too much. The rain was never cold enough. My thoughts were never deep enough. The air was never thick enough.
We complained how cold it was, and never dressed any warmer.
I said it was because we forgot.
I think you're convinced of mystery.
As if it's in your blood.