these last vestiges of my patience, splayed and left stinking and wet on the sidewalks, would have been all that's left. footsteps and distant eyelashes. scratching on sheet beds. and shower stalls. stilted late night textual misery. plied out. and strange. so. much. strange.

only, now. there's nothing left. only the thick roll of smoke after a few glasses of wine. to remember.

there's not a mystery. about the way that life moves. in phases. that now happiness clings. cleaves. leaves me feeling like that last vestiges of my patience might take me to the ends of the pavement. the ends of the oceans. to swell.


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