the ceaseless why (this much i know is true).

being.
this much i know is true,
the crumblings, the bit-ends of life,
the frothings in the sink.
the lather at the end of the day,
between the sheets.
i am consumed with these, infected.
dirt on the doorways.

love.
this much i know is true:
a dark love.
the tension in our bodies, your memory.
you imagine
(did i keep you in a cage, hold you in my palm?)
the sea waking you, unlike i ever could,
whispering sonnets in your ears, i never did.
i plucked your eyelashes and kept them,
blowing them away one by one, something to lose of you,
everyday.

pain.
this much i know is true
when time wraps me,
another skin flayed slowly,
another blanket on a stifling, gardenia-laden night.
searching for the horizon, time.
how i desire dark mornings and obedience.
the agony of free will.

apocalypse.
this much i know is true.
a red sun, a dark sky, an orange moon;
who told me this was the first day of the end of the world?
i tried to name all the everythings,
all the words i held softly, carefully.
did i protect them from fire,
these crumblings, from the harsh light of catastrophe?