unfinished mourning

for some time: the writing burns like cigarette in your mouth, hand. suntime, already. in the meantime: the windows resemble time in its intricate conspiracies against space. noon: the trail vanishes with snow. my eyes are like sand from devil's hand. i stand and watch the deliberate intercourse of truth and impossibility - swallowed by the body of their mother. sick hour: obsolete typerwriter ribbon announces another love. then everything is disjointed by the hand behind the curtain. the invisible joy of the end, the pain, the radicality of light touching the eye once again. in sorrow we dream, in sorrow we become sisters.

::: restart later :::