confabulation

I haven't been able to sleep enough in years

and I only think of dying

and of you, with smoke blossoming between your fingers

from claustrophobic cigarettes and the sediments of ash.

All things lost on earth I found in your eyes

reflecting in mirrors that show me all my faults, your truths,

and the ways you were hurting

and they all became our concoction for necromance to kill the atrophy

that crawled from my mouth to yours, reptilian and diabolic,

eroding its path.

Amidst this, I kept you in my ribs, the last place to shatter before I give up

this war against quake after quake of uncertainties and quicksand -

the last place to succumb.

I only want to shut my eyes for blackness and silence,

both strangers to my will and even stranger to my mind,

who pours gasoline over every paracosm (of you) - before it can even breathe

shaky, irregular breaths.