now give way to Tuesday afternoons and skipping woodwork class for your own tired eyes. your fingers twist tree-roots into bedsheets, and are you meant to clutch sleep when there’s nothing else to hold on to? i believe that the past tense to tragedy is trauma and that means sundown chills my skin into an igloo for red blood cells that wish they were anywhere but here. and we made wooden hearts that lesson and i wish you could have one too but geppetto ran out of heartwood

the saying says the road should rise to meet you, but i always watched you fall to the road and blame it on alcohol. you can slur your dream world but at this hour you always speak in future tense and i’m not ready for plans, i’m just a man who’s fucked unless he can find a plan and a canal.

your room was beautiful, the forest of dryads and blue ink, staining moss stones and turning them into turtle shells, growing legs and hiding from your casual stare. dandelions roared through loudspeakers and ushered away the incessant eyes that beat down like a sun’s ray without the warmth.

too late for vagabondage and too early for pearly gates, you tell me about the termites that talk to you when you’re down. they twirl pirouettes on your record needle and they make your favourite song skip until you scream, and they vanish into the mainstream subconsciousness, where virtual minds are torn apart at words that forgot their meaning a long time ago. you shred your hair to sombre strands and i tell you that just because you can’t see them, it doesn’t make them termites

maybe you can carve a heart from your desk and from your wardrobes and it will be a red ochre that won’t need paint to dress up as pretty, it won’t need a disguise. i prayed for the only time last night for that but the termites ate away at your room and the supports barely stood against you and your termites, you could barely stand up