• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 01
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if you were still here, I’d slice off the tip of every finger, including the thumb, in the face of my words dying

if you were still here, I’d sever my leg and toss it in the tip, with its knee high sock still in place - the femur full of sarcasm and wit

if you were with me my eyes I would pop, one by one from the skull to enter the crackling darkness where memories on motorbikes do burnouts and dissolve – no need for clubs then

in the stillness of letting go, ears closed over with needles and thread, I would give every piece, every last inch of my shell to have you hear,

but oh

there are no wide arms for my body or lined palms to collect up my soul and if only brings with it all the irrevocable weight

of knowing