The Paradox of Gravity

All my fingers are balloons about to pop. The tense of helium in erect breasts. Oh my eyes, they're just dead stones sewn into the quilt of my frown. Mute infants in their cribs while mommy opens the valve on her arm.

Some nights I'm so tired I seriously wonder if I'm dead. Or dying. Wish it true under my breath. And there's no reason. Nothing that I've done to make it so. Sleep. Eat. Work. Drink. Write. Repeat. Until one of those tunnels finally caves in. There are the bricks. Rough moments of epiphany that tremble still to the tumble of broken men. The clause of self moaning. Sobbing. Fallen fruit. Rotting to be picked. There is mortar. Fragments of truth still embedded. In futures I hope I'll never know. Paring knives cutting bread.

The only question is will I ever put them together.

I know we all want to believe the ones we love are getting better. But the ones we love. They only want to be certain we don't know they're not.

I'm so tired sometimes without a reason. Like a cartoon character who looks down to discover that the ground is gone. And only then does he fall.