Embedded in each story
A lapsarian distinction
An absolute, withholding "were" from "are"
A predetermined path from omnipresence to extinction
The lines we deftly draw connecting stars

Is it so wrong if I can no longer place
The features correctly together on my face?
I sent away so many ghosts out from my brain
These days they do descend in dreams to dance, it seems
We might just, could be friends again

In thanatotic threadbare
A hazy sunday morning
And I can’t concеive the circuits in my head
Disconnеcted at each molecule, hungover and unforming
A mist, I float among my unmade bed

But it’s only on some shaded degrees
That my synapses fire more efficiently
But it’s only on the sharpest of days
I can connect the dots between the things I see
And things I mean to say
I remain, skeptical