The air smells of erosion,
of broken things,
of death and forgetting.
I woke up twice on the same day, and nothing changed.
Clenching unease clung to the spaces in between seconds,
and the vocabulary of our existence crumbled with the rest.
Whoever said? Whoever said those things? Who was I when I said those things? Why? Who is this that is not the one that I was when I did what crumbled it? Why? Why not laughter? Why not pain, why not let’s try again, I forget. Why stop now, smeared lipstick, in bed now to wake up to the same day twice. And I still forget myself, and I still forget what then was not how I want.
And again the sound of no one breathing.
Where will I be when I die again tomorrow?
No endeavour satisfies the guilt of being now.
There is no proper way to recreate that which I once had. Forever losing that which is not mine. Forever today and why not? Unspool threaded tomorrow, and here I am again, bad things come with pools to drown in.
It’s such a horrible place, this. Some man stuck in a lathe.