dear fabrics,

"I'm staying here to pull the summer left in me back out"
I think the idea was something along those lines
y'know, the crap we say as though we form our decisions,
sewing our bowels in and out as if we had blueprints rather than just patterns.

I guess my pattern is pulling myself through weird fabrics.
Truth is, I'm still left sweating in tshirts I leave in the fridge overnight.
Trying to feel winter, white, calm, deeper than down,
a substantial layer to heed off the sleep that scratches through skin
your red surface to my emotional tourism

In keeping the cold, there must be some new songs to chill through restless mornings of memory foam
the sounds muttered through pillows,
but maybe words are just something to lose your throat to
so I spent this week losing to a line in a movie,
the world that offers little more than acoustic resonance,
Might as well find rest in the coffee and cigarettes (I cant quit)
and I'm shutting up to trust that there will be worst trips for my words to be on:

a summer spent pending
polishing silver tongues
to cut pieces of cloth from the pillow of someone who
already knows how to fall asleep alone to the sound of traffic
the makings of a shallow bed

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