I keep finding stones on the floor
I sweep them away
But they come back
They always come back
Not soft
Not like pillows
Or sleep
That thing that murmurs
In my ear
That takes
Me to the floor at 3am
I write in pencil
It disappears by morning
Not important enough to stay for a few more hours
The sink has taken me again
It is not important enough to be seen
I walk up the hill across the grass and the dandelions cling
to my shoes it is nice
Nice until I reach the bench and see the dirt
On my toes
On my hands
In my head
I walk away
I always walk away
Incomplete
Undone
We were not allowed to speak
That’s what I want to say
I stand in the kitchen
The jitters as old as the plans
There is nothing left to be scared of
But it wears me away
Still
The grind of wings across my skull
Changing everything and nothing
I am turned to stone
Falling on the floor
Without noise
Without sound
I fill my ears with her voice
My hand with powder
My body with dust
I stand in the kitchen
Not sure
Keeping old lists
Forgetting new thoughts
I look at my hands
I look at my face
Falling like stone on the floor.
