turning to the dead, with offerings of opium thyme patience

maybe they are wiser, but obscure your face with three

of your hands when seeking advice about picking locks.

ask them if a deer looks beyond the headlights

i cup a clear sea and hold it to my ears

the molluscs are mourning marching moulding

grief shapes the tides, or do waves

steal their name from the wrinkles beneath your eyes

a universal flood washes away the first layer of familiarity

sentimentality is bleak, it is cloudy until it isn’t, it is clandestine when it’s not

im sorry for drawing a new skull onto myself, i promise i still

pocket candles and read obituaries of strangers, i am the same as i was

eight hundred fifty six years ago, see me, you see me

i am the same, (i am not), what feels like inevitable betrayal

is merely us tripping on the way out of this city, this

city of stars, i won’t say scars because it sounds too decadent

there are some parts of me that refuse to wither, the knots in my belly,

the fissures in my tongue, trust me, i have tried to make myself palatable

but i refuse to dry out a river of faithful bones, i teach it to write letters

water dies too many times before finally understanding the concept of eviction

luckily for you, i’m kinder at dawn,

i loosen my fingers while braiding your hair

you notice the plaits getting more unruly every passing morning,

but you never question, i don’t want to answer

this is my gentlest goodbye to you

like water i slither away