I am a constant.

I am not a period.
I am not in a hurry.
I am no conclusive remark.
I am a quivering ellipsis
stretching as I quake
widening the gap between
forms of punctuation.
I’m hesitating

but there is nothing remiss
about obsession.
it’s core is
consumptive,
tough,
taut,
actively engaged.
I am remembering the light reflecting off the panels
of a broken disco ball.
it is opening the bottle and watching
where the cap dropped.
I am feeling dry dirt under bare feet in June.
it is an unreachable itch in blue tights under a blacklight
in February.
I am ordering Indian for one.
it is asking you your meat preferences
in furtive mistrust.
I am kneeling in sweats
to pick my Tibetan quartz off the floor.
It is placing my glasses
on your windowsill.
it is the next morning: crisp,
sudden.
I am last year and it is the
warning.


I am parting my hair differently.
I am dyeing it blond.
I am grinding my teeth into my gums.
it is still a black bob,
bangs,
too much eyeliner,
triggered and swallowing the bark
without pause
it takes nothing but attention,
the ignition,
to incite.
I am the oxygen:
yawning, laughing,
screaming at your mirage.
we are started.
it takes everything.
I  become adrift,
nothing.
it is a movement.
I am the fit it makes.
is contentment the space between two forms of
expectation?
I say to the ceiling.
and

what finally becomes of feelings?

“smoke”

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