how little the little things are

until they sky all over you:

every word a cave and every ear a mine.

how little the little things are

before they cave in on you:

every mouth a sky and every word a stormcloud.

you never know, how

the bleeding edge makes you

bleed more,

how the blood makes the edge

sharper, until

they flood you, the tears

too ashamed to jump from the cliff of your eye,

rotting away in their tearsac lives,

leaking through the pipes of your dreams,

turning you into nothing more

than a lump of flesh mold.

but, and this may be just

the last craving, the last erection

before the execution, but

i feel a once familiar relief:

i don't want to be seen and they don't want to see me.

i don't want to talk and they don't want to hear me.

i don't want to be known and they don't want to know me.

it's like, finally, the world understands

my denial of want, and doesn't deny it to me.

now the past is no longer a ghost

and the future is no longer a grave

and the present is just time that too shall pass.

now i want to be buried

in a shroud of small, slow clocks

and wake up to their faint, kissy alarms.

and say morning to the morning.

and say night to the night. 

~ ajay

13/11/2025