i feel so small again
st all the words i
want to use.


     i'm a faded graphite
     trace on
     your features,

          i would want to say

     or that my
     scrapped voice
     rips through a cloud of
     newborn consciousness to keep me silent -

     that i wanted to
     let my fingertips flow
     on those deep etched barcode strips on your neck and
     there would be numbers underneath
     and they would feel like
     snowflakes


i want to be a
song.

i want you to sing along and
     i want you to
     choose me for
          rolling on the tip of your tongue.

i want you to
let your eyelids sink with
     my dying notes.


i want to have
a bird i named after you. but
i guess, i think, i know i
wouldn't be to hold it

     because it would remember me
     of you


     my words horrify me on paper. they
     are so real, as if i could feel their
     heart beating.

               i want to hear your heart beating someday. to
               know that you are real, and this is
               not a dream gone wrong.

     my words gaze upon me, as
          if i'm a creature in
          pity -

     writing inert epilogues for
     plays that will never be
     staged.

    

i feel so small
again
st
all the words
i found inside,
cluttered in a
box labeled

"things with
postponed burials"
.