when you
you wake up
in the middle of the day
from your conscious coma
you take a drag
off your freshly lit
cigarette and take a sip
of whatever’s in your hand
and stare into the air
as the smoke rises
from your crippled grip
you follow it
off to the left
into the noise
blow it out your nose
and take a deep breath
and you notice
the waves in your head
singing praises
your lifelessness
converts and bleeds
into something
I
can’t
put
a
finger on it
but it’s there
and you understand
and nothing is perfect
except for the little things
no one else understands
like a kiss on the forehead
or the sleep that follows
or when you’re just
alone completely
in yourself, witnessing
what it is you think and do
try to manage
the memories are like a solution
required and insufflated
through the skin
they’re forming an imperfect portrait
of your time here
and you can’t help
but get lost in it
goodnight
