we have a vague, aching kind of consciousness tied to our waists and outlining patterns in our skin. we try so hard to make fashion statements with our exaggerated sighs and melancholy gazes that we wore anywhere but our sleeves. we will not vanish, we won’t, even though we try to sometimes and only speak in tautologies and play the wrong chords and see the wrong signs written in the skies. people diagnose us with all kinds of things and tell us things we won’t remember, and they’re wrong too, all wrong.
our fingers flutter around in the still air, trying to land on something, point at anything, but we don’t understand, we really really don’t. we just want to see, just want to believe in something, just want to dig our knees into the dirt and scar our hands with the possibility of possibilities. suicide pacts and love letters and all of the books that we’ll burn before we even write. we still don’t understand.
we woke up and we were aligned in the stars, intertwined in the unfinished constellations, above the sleeping, impossible world.
