partything

my world is great and alone. it haunts the streets, tasting sidewalks and catching glares, little fires thrown outwards, stars of warning. it pulls its coat up and trips over its ankles, staring into any surface that will stare back. it hungers at the corners, willing the paint from the streetlights, frozen and thawed, a stuttering of ellipsises. and all these great—a book of poisons, clawed madly at the spine of the world. it manages a smile, stolen from the infant with the broken neck, the people falling off their beds. it says hello, all cut up from the tongues of newspapers. it steels elbows against the wall, fumbles at its knees, recites the stains on the floor. it falls through the crowd, a prickled spittle of numbers, gasping for a neck line or a fish bowl, sweating muted apologies. it crashes into the darkest corner of sound, a satellite in the noise, adjusting its eyelids, pushing fingers through eye sockets, creases of hair. it takes a plastic cup, one refined stumble, and pours their world in. it braves a quick take of air, a practiced mumble, and swallows.