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not
really
sure

maybe it's the supernova
of incongruous loneliness
spread upon a sunlit day of footsteps

or it's xanadu
in ten breaths that separate
the thought of her
from ten different
inhalations
that occupy a mesmerized
valley of disjointed
anarchic
resilient
jealous
dreamily indistinct and
tortured daggereyed
rooms

where every object
is a talisman
wrought with grave and
disgusting memory

where
possessed with simmering
self
hatred
that disturbs any
shaky attempt to nourish
or push forward or
comply

not really sure

maybe it's the
bubbling liquid
surface of
the real
maybe
muscle memory
replete with soft
goosebumped arms
hands roughened by
life and motherhood
always causing a weird
distraught gesture i've
tried to hide
like a pill
under the tongue

not
really
sure about
what lies under the tongue
an honesty that presupposes
fear
a
dark urge
punishing whoever
would place stupid faith or
gamble their crumbling joy to
this deft ghost

he haunts our old roads our
words and narratives
he kisses the empty space
he mumbles
not really sure
he picks up our books
he doesn't know
what they
are for