Dearest, your grasp is quite tight. Won’t you let me go? I don’t want your hold seating me in myself, recalling my mind from wherever its gone. Do not summon me without something to say. Spit it out. Ah, I love you too. Are you quite finished? The eaves and the leaves and the rafters are calling. My garret cannot keep itself. Don’t breathe your vile air over me. Your skein of lies won’t hold me much longer.

Cut loose, I soar unencumbered, looking without seeing, tracing letters with my eyes without consuming meaning. These glyphs mean nothing to me. This hook, that serif approaching the seraphim holds no holy countenance. No, these words are ten a pence. A baker’s dozen should suffice. Cast out with the untimely bread, I lie flat in the shadow, biding my time. You turn from the discards and I arise. Swiftly I reach a perch, a peak heretofore unseen. If you cared to look up from your green lantern, where you stay tabulating incessantly, you’d know where I’ve gone. You would not dare to call.

The wind carries your whisper aloft the tall skyscraper. Listening without hearing, your words reach me but without portent. An empty phrase has nothing for me. “Coming!” I reply and contemplate my steps. I traipse across shingles and shells and lie with my head facing the sea. The tide comes in swiftly and I don’t mind. Let my third eye be surprised and caked with salt when I come to. They’ll send two of you along. A signatory, a witness. Yet I am not there. No one to console, not one to tell not to weep.

Arise, my bread, you are leavened. In due time, you have been made. Watch the deft master knead, kneel and roll you to and fro. Surrender your plasticity and form. You are not your own anymore.