*sighs*

I got lazy

I let smoke slip under doors

Listened to melodies of another soul

until all I could feel was the pull of a foreign conscience

I didn’t write

Felt too infinitesimal in the current of changing things

I etched productions of grandiose experience across my insides

Tasted the copper on my tongue

I poked at the coals and hoped for seared skin

I became a past-tense thing

But I did not write