you slip my arm through your fingers like a bracelet,
sweaty with the indecisions, giant—teetering on the tips of our tongues,
irritability swells and sighs
for the rest of my body to catch back up.
a screaming stream of poison pounding up through my throat, I tell you
I’m not here anymore.
It’s just the pieces—
just the tiny rooms strung together by a dwindling thread,
a golden glance of whimsy, wet with the drudgery of truth.
If what lies beneath are only ashes,
how long will you hold my hand?