Things Fall Apart

Muß es sein?

We’re spit and ashes, you and I, measured out
piecemeal, spoon by spoon, and falling.

Cough yourself bloody in the kitchen, gasp
into cupped palms, and wait. wait. wait.

There are chasms in these caesuras.
Every gap a wound; every pause an abyss.

Like footprints in the snow—I won’t forgive you
won’t forgive you I won’t forgive you I won’t.

58 hours awake: my pen slips. skips. skids.
White-sky migraine; ink in my lifeline.

We are accidents waiting to happen.
There does not have to be a reason.