.

I cannot move.
I cannot write.
I pour and etch ink unto my skin.
and nothing can come out of me.
i cannot think.
i cannot make sense. of anything.
or clearly take the reflections that yearn to be seen.
i am of no use.
i am of no purpose.
i cannot even pull the words
from my throat
pictures are two dimensional
fake leftover light
.even in walking forward
im fighting the only current i feel ever existed
did i ever wish to own you
or simply know that you exist
it doesnt matter
it doesnt really matter
you are a belonging
you are as broken as i can say you made me.
you are as alive
as the man who walks once he's bled himself out on the floor.
you are infinite.
you survive. flow forth from black holes and cinic stars and make us feel.
tear away the healthy skin from your knuckles.
you were born to break.
you were born to shatter.
you were born to be
everything you are
and everything you can be
is only meant to be a "could"
how much does it hurt ?
how much could we ever bear to be intact,
ever, after knowing this.
intentions, or reasons, or how much good you could have given.
but didnt.
they dont matter.
it doesnt really matter.
it doesnt make a difference at the end of the day.
at the end of the day,
borderline conscious,
we cant talk,
we cant keep a silence that was never ours to begin with
we cant keep it carefully aside
we both move
lets fall and feel
and i can taste you
in every drop of sweat that threatens to remind me
of tears i cannot cry
of things i cannot say
of things that couldnt be
that skin to skin
should pray for the absolution of all sins,
or that we should simply.
stay.