Buried in drafts, and in catacombs, honeycombs///

buried in valleys and utterly silent within a vacuum,

a sanctum//

staring up at the orbiting satellite,

lost in paraphrase,

we can hear it in one ear not the other,

Which takes away from the message, from the song.

Which takes away from the transmissions, the transitions ,

….from the song.

The surprises and the authenticities

and the vague behavior that passes for charm ( s) ,

and for the jewelry laying on top of the dresser.

The watches and the pendants

and loose antacids,

that are scattered like tombstones,

chalky pink and purple

that didn’t quite make it into the jewelry box the first time,

that didn’t quite make it into me the first time,

The things I didn’t get to the first time ,

I’ll come back around to it,

to them,

to the antacids,

to the antecedent,

Despite the protagonist.

Pressing keys that do nothing, furiously.

and it all comes spilling out, furiously.

Like with me,

Like it always seems to,

  furiously and

through me.

(Originally published by Matthew Hopkins on Medium 11/4/2021)