The dissolution
I dissolve along the roads. I congeal and fall away.
After days raining days of rain, my skin is hot and porous, itching with thin accusations in ephemeral veils. This is doubly compounded by alone-time: rooms, cataloged and perplexed, repeat the same fatal wind in grimace rinds around my shape. The problem is I have never taken anything into myself, and so the infection has been allowed to build to deafening. Now I can’t hear through all the white, all the blinds, all the clearness and wants of density. I dissolve along the roads, filled with that same fog.
To congeal and fall away in the same breath, there are motions we haven’t documented: they rise at night, and furrow my sleep with seedless grapes.
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