static imperatives fill the silence with constant chatter.
but even words you trust won’t stay where you send
them. you want to go home to paint, to find comfort
in that public privacy, then walk around naked singing
gloomy sunday, not billie holiday’s truffled number,
but the hungarian suicide version until you can
memorize the paralysis, what it means to be in a room,
with her, sitting next to you.
By Jax NTP.