the wind whispered to me in my sleep that there is never any body to hoist itself in, to clench its fingers and dig holes in flesh, and call it home.

if i’d turned my back against the story, would my shadow cease?

your shadow is sewed with threadbare dreams, visible through slanted sunlight slits onscreen, filtered through pink rust and ocher from the window grills, dusty with artificial longing.

and the wind is nothing but a collection of lonely gazes, the accumulation of salt when the tides recede from the boulders, damp with dismay.

if i’d turn against the story, where would that leave my body?

i wrote this for us but you’ve parched the skies clean, a skeletal ribcage left for beasts to feed on. what have we led ourselves onto?

this story is no longer a story when it falls asleep.