Of you more Nothing

Ever one and each

of ever, again,

stid plur ill st

dalous bout being

disionship ownrelationshwontfully

it weird enough

to give a fuck

not more any

just death fore

as I clue cdid

an conunderstanddeatnot

I'mith do

the do not do

don't want to be a name

for the reason

I was just thinking of it

and I was wondering

if and when

I was wondering if

I was just thinking about it

is it that individuals

would have to be that.

A strange hum

in the quiet afternoon,

a thread pulled loose

from the tapestry of now.

The weight of being,

this constant flickering,

a switch someone left on

in a room I can't quite locate.

Every single

and then the next,

the echo of a step

on a stair that isn't there.

Scandal whispers,

not loud, but persistent,

a small static

around the edges of belonging.

Relationship tangled,

a knot I didn't tie,

yet my fingers keep tracing

the impossibly tight loops.

It’s weird enough, yes,

this whole performance,

this urgent need to care

about the shape of the shadows.

But the giving has dried up,

a well gone dusty,

not more, not any less,

just a final settling.

Death as the horizon,

the only solid thing

I can chart my course toward,

a silent destination.

I clue cdid something,

a momentary insight,

then it dissolves,

an understanding lost to the current.

I am not what I will do,

nor what I refuse.

A middle ground

where intentions fray.

The name, that banner they try to drape,

feels heavy, borrowed cloth,

unsuited to the fra meb eneath.

I slip out of itsilently.

The thinking itself,

a loop, a Möbius strip,

is it the origin, or the reflection?

The wondering, a constant rain.

If I was just thinking,

does the thought possess its own gravity,

pulling the world slightly

off its accustomed tilt?

And the heavy part, the fiquestion:

must everyone carry this specific,

oddly shaped burdeself,

this insistence on being?

Or is the necessities a lone,

this final, exhaus ting iteration

of ever one and eachever?