The soft sound of water spraying onto
Ceramic tile
Words that don’t exist stick
In the back of the

I rest my head against a stool imagining
Weightless property,
Move me;

Serotonin and glial cells
Holding up mass
We are here.
In speaking, we form space
I have left somewhere
Simply, to be over there
Stay still and let the mirage that we are alive set.
Till death comes closer

In the beginning
Morphing feeling into empty being
As it bleeds out, the only certainty is it will be replaced.
The remaining letters are only a reminder
Of the cracks in our voices begging
For an original silence.

Birthed, pleading for meaning
There, all the words we cannot have
Bearing the proof of illusionary living
Chemicals pregnant with nervous ending
Welcome your reflection
What we have here
Never was.


Image Credit: Isa Benn, used with permission.