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  A f T E R   T h E   A E T h E R N E T          ][ radiolullaby.smol.pub
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"je crois qu’il profita, pour son Γ©vasion, d’une migration d’oiseaux sauvages"

spreading myself thin over the crawlspaces of the internet

watching my dog's nose dripping on the floor

an endless blue, perhaps more tired than twenty years ago---

the sound of a plane traversing the sky, tracing the vastness

some wistful memory of a feather in the summer breeze, a whisper against the cheek, a golden field

---was it easier then? perhaps, yes, although it hurt more, too

feelings are pinpricks on the wrong side of the skin now 


                        β˜†οΌŠβ”β”β”β”β”β” † β”β”β”β”β”β”οΌŠβ˜†

if we could go anywhere, anywhere at all

perhaps we'd only go backwards 


                        β˜†οΌŠβ”β”β”β”β”β” † β”β”β”β”β”β”οΌŠβ˜†

I no longer believe my words have worth

&I haven't believed that for a good long while

but I'm trying again

(&again)

[&again]

I'm not sure why

{why now}

I'm scared that my words have become ingrained with a curse

that to dare to write will bring back the sickness

{the black.hole.sun}

&that if the sickness comes back

this time I won't come out the other side

of the long yellow tunnel

but be swallowed by the mist

&disappear forever

&then I won't be able to care for her anymore

I used to try to dream

only to be engulfed by sweat

choking on air that couldn't seem to reach my lungs

the night closing in on me like bars of a cage:

until I stopped dreaming altogether

until I stopped crying altogether

until I stopped feeling altogether

scars on the inside constricting

b r e a t h e 


                        β˜†οΌŠβ”β”β”β”β”β” † β”β”β”β”β”β”οΌŠβ˜†

it's hard to know what to write here

perhaps I should look about more, read the room

it's nice to be here in my corner, though

knowing there's the possibility of being found

but not that I *have* to be... 


                                                                     >>>EOF


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