When you pick at a scab and it husks away in little crumbly, skin stuck bits and then the tears come fat and wide and utterly pretentious, the maroon of the globe decides to manifest at your fingertips and you suck, you bawl, you enjoy the small sampling of your own slit and emptied Gospel, the heave of your worn arteries

And the little doughnuts that tumble mechanically pulse at the wall in a perpetual whisper

going going

Gasping at you is the peeling edges of a gaping mouth, the pink underbelly of ephemeral tongues, the slick smack of flesh-on-flesh, the wisps of hair that dot each corner wither away and you grasp at ashes, still crumbling
you grasp at my hand, still trembling

my hand has gone