first thursday’s night.
i’ve [been] spent sober,
fancy me a blissful alone.
“the [spiral] stares descend
and the our dies quickly”
you won’t lose your way.
oh. and let them, the shadows,
fade.
my fingernails look like a rubix cube,
or maybe a cross word puzzle.
maybe they’re pruned,
like fingers are after a bath;
from far too much water.
or maybe they’re dried up
from all this futile everything.
