I think I talk about myself too much.

I try to frame it in a way so I can touch

the fleeting veil of feeling over someone's lived experience,

lift it for a second, keep them talking.

Sing towards palaces, and hope they hear via magic, —

my current voice is too quiet for them otherwise,

and there has to be something I can do with it…

I feel I used to be less afraid,

but I'm more open and earnest than ever now. Contradiction in terms? Closeted?

Being queer in a way which is too human for you-as-writer.

You-as-rationalist says there's no point ignoring it, might as well.

You-as-spark, the feeling spark, says that wearing the sparkless —

being, inhabiting the sparkless, all the mineral residue you've built up, —

is better than anyelse feeling. Distilled joy, potentially addictive.

The seafront shimmers in my mind's eye. The sea is blind, and I'm not enough to take care for it. The story,

wasn't built for this circumstance, —

though of course it's more interesting this way… The story'd believe it. The story'd believe it is.

Sing forth magic, and hope it hears. I'm too fictional not to answer.

Scratch that. Even the idea knows it can live.

The sea talks in protactile.

The body dances in a cramped club, the magic is elsewhere but potent,

the rain is falling and I do smell petrichor