Blank screens over every surface, trusting on instinct to follow fingertips on walls and concrete buildings praying you feet don't let you fall and it's all crimson beneath your cheeks that you can picture but can't quite figure a way that it could look.
Rough pads of skin that you trust with your life, your eyes are no longer useful but they stay with a blank screen covering a loved ones face with a certain strife that you can't place in a brain full of colours that you can't name but have learned to love on their own, and these nights cry for you with hues you can't see, but can't help but touch descriptions of each and you pray for sight, to see these coloured lights instead of the darkness that follows the night as you sleep without closing your eyes, be careful not to dream too vividly.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Relapse.
ŞiirA place for me to write poetry whenever it arises in my lungs, when I have no air to scream these words that haunt me into my days and night
