I just want to catch you whispering

it's not even like an intention, or a want, any more than intention wants to be intentionality and the crawlspace wants to be crowded.
it's only that i'm quietly moving from a dangle-string high on some sort of leaf, it's not really even a dreamcatcher so much as it is any sort of crevasse and notch capable of reacting.

this is a hello, this is a post-apocryphal lick of static that sticks to daythoughts magnetically and so much like a wondrous object, wheeled in ambiguity.  can you just put-unravel thought materials into this lovely coalpile, crushed and ready for the train?  only prodding, i'd rather the fuel raw.

it's not when you put the words at the end of the brush and let anything, any old thing, cling,, like a discarded remnant or necessary facilitation to juxtaposition; this is that and only the need to row out and touch the pond to the maelstrom with a finger. 

can we remember the bath?  it's only that there was once a time when i was at most at one with anxiety, and could precisely feel the spread of insect wings under a thick shell.  no, start over.

this is a subtle scratch where none could catch, a weathered and feathered beast warbling sweetly and oh-so quietly smelling the feast where one would watch and sow vegetables for green, green rains of fluttering flashing, splashing and ever-so-slightly malformed touches on ruffled heads.  forming a circle, a still, it's, i, i gather the dew, the rain.
precipitating, participating, participle, part of this sickle is worn and tarnished from careful misuse.
perhaps even oxidized.

oh, to bring me the curtain, you have to tell me where it lies and reflect entirely off of it, diffusing and endlessly reusing the past.  oh, to outlast.