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