I see his hands, I see paper cuts
and flowers, I want to trace his hands...

Labels are for cans, not people,
so please stop turning me...

During Summer, I leave my fingerprints everywhere,
smudging the horizon on my bedroom window...

I wish my fingers
less bony, less glued to piano keys...

... a crack of light
... a moment of fracture...

Along railroads, I can hear the wind
plucking songs from cities and skies...

At 12 AM, I forgot about the laundry,
still curling in the washing machine...

Cast the rod, rip the calendar apart,
you'll find your lucky number...

One -
we are strangers, reaching over...

I want the world to consist less
of headaches, of less collars that suffocate...

"What was high school like, to you?"
I was the rat in the labyrinth...

I fear fineliner on paper,
never began drawing because...