when i cant reach with my hand, the long lines gather in what i need.

lipping the suns voltage, no USB, no cynicism, no sweeteners, this drop of blood glistens.

palms to dirt, an unshouldering of irrelevance, a reception of non-judgement, the only honest moment.

the pines have been writing out their song book and folding it into airplanes beyond our fingers.

i think the shadow falls marking the same threshold, would we notice a falling short, if change eroded our foundation stone?

my thoughts rattled ways of dying until i met yours, crushed by chance with no choices. slaughtered like others whilst i slept.

in me is an old man, an archetype preserved in the kernel of our image bank. he knows how to spit and sleep well.

i see the forest i will plant safe in the future, as my coffee and my desk confer another spell of privilege.

whose design corner thrilled with acid upright slices, the grain distilled for some higher order.