clack
of
the
keyboard.
fully
automatic
words
deriving
from
the
empty
spaces
not
yet
filled
in
my
bones.
burning
cigarettes
on
my
forearm,
i
have
named
them
Adam,
second
chance
deliriums
injected
into
my
veins.
we
drift
from
each
other,
though
i
offer
up
sacrifices
of
myself
so
i
can
pen
my
thoughts
into
him,
but
i
am
still
searching
for
the
crossroads
of
our
story.
By
Weasel
20