what can become of a dream—
but a/wake;
if eye told you that the rest is breath,
would you leave leftovers in my lungs?

two sticks with
too much friction
body to body:
fire.

there is no oxygen here,
inside this casket:

distance
de-tach-ment
dis/
connection;

eye want to share a treasure chest with you:
now,
and later.

I want death to find us watermelon-flavored
in life’s mouth,
reach in to suck out the nectar,
and anger the gods.

but maybe this is how we became mourning?