upward, inward
seated on cliff’s edge looking down,
tears fall into my lap
a hand habitually
finds it’s palm
pressing at my heart
feeling the pulse of its ache;
please, please, please
allow my thoughts to be people enough,
as I need to be alone;
to fully marvel at the contortion of mind,
that makes pliable the information I take in,
that which is real,
which feels so unreal,
wrung out sponge like
dripping remnants of a soul
that never evaporates
from my being