clogged in my sleep-deprived brain are
crumpled scraps of paper i’ve been meaning to
scrap one. “let’s go outside.”
blackened grid-like sidewalks and noiseless streets
roaming freely out of sheer post-midnight curiosity
then melting into firm grounded steps
steered by puddles and mushy dewy grass.
scrap two. “talk to me.”
filters and defenses simultaneously
or pathological lies being cornered into
the waters down the riverside
then drowned by weighty gaps and breaks
of comfortable silence.
scrap three. “please?”
making room for a temporary lodger
pretending the expiry date doesn’t exist
and turning “scoot over?”
into “move in?”
in half-assed fits of delirium.
i still don’t know what to make of these scraps
my brain will declutter itself
in waking hours.