the count

The clock burns low,  hours clambering down the walls. The tepid numerals, the salted shatter of the dial. The blue bright flame giving the need a name. The television stagger and the blue bias glow. The evergreen and the worn clean through.

I live the ache as evidence. I enter these pained passages into the record. The words scatter down the page. The cursor what little is left of this longing. Black moods and blood touched abstractions. I have to spell it out.

Night slips in whether you watch it or not. The absence weighing heavy as light leaves only its want. Life in considered stills. Life in gnashing doubts. All these feels and seems. Living without the means.