Of coffee dripping down white ceramic—
Distance between seconds stretched like skin
Bruised to cover the drum-frame of my breaths
Ribs crack,
Bones hollow, empty of marrow,
Vines push through where sinews used to twine,
Unused, while reading
Quietly on the couch
Shifting into a new kind of body—
A new space-time,
Keeping my dream-lost diaphragm
Tethered to my fingertips
Only drawing her back
When the self-entitled sense of melancholy
Drips back behind my nasal passageways
Sifts out the back of my neck,
And pulls me back toward a lukewarm sip
Kira Rosemarie is a writer and artist from Kentucky currently living in South Florida. She writes short fiction and poetry and was last published in Indiana University's Canvas Creative Arts Magazine.
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