scraps

clogged in my sleep-deprived brain are

crumpled scraps of paper i’ve been meaning to

unscramble.

 

scrap one. “let’s go outside.”

something-something about

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.”

something-something about

filters and defenses simultaneously

rendering erroneous

or pathological lies being cornered into

the waters down the riverside

then drowned by weighty gaps and breaks

of comfortable silence.

scrap three. “please?”

something-something about

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

and perhaps

my brain will declutter itself

in waking hours.