A String Between Tins

I woke up this morning with my little orange cat curled up between my body and the edge of the bed.
We are so perfectly matched. Sometimes, this is plenty; meaning is found in shared, wordless existence.
This week, nothing is enough.
It is almost August. Life is sharper than usual. I am wrapped in paper cuts, bloodstained sheets.
I wish you were here now. We have- we have so much to discuss, and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel well until we do.
Can you hear me? I’m calling.
I light matches to feed the telephone wires. At night, I lie awake with my totems and relics.
You are near enough to touch and so far as to never know.
Don’t you feel the tug?
Of all the things that make me feel like a child again, this one is my least favorite.
I bury the sound of boots hitting linoleum in a carefully marked grave.
It was different then, the same way it’s different now.
Tomorrow, I wake up drenched in sweat. I am on the right track. Aching but in no pain. Bloodied but not hurt.
I can meet any demand, but breathing is hard with lungs so full of honey.
I cannot die before the lilac blooms, but another branch falls every time the moon goes black.
Feet so full of splinters. Fingers caked with gold and calluses.

I am such a leech on the back of old magics.

Daylight deals a winning hand.

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