between rooms

it's my last night
and i'm thinking i should write
but in the end
he had all the words
and i had none left

i feel fearful of a change i feel not in control of
but i fear i could find control
if i just stay boundaried

when i feel my body swells
an orchestra of knives
like choking on strings
or swallowing a crescendo

i'd like to sit on sound
or words
on the texture of dry mouth
or whatever noise there is outside of this place

i'd like to trundle down our empty corridor
to find an open palm
which slots into mine like a lego brick

but then theres this discordant swelling
i cannot mute my strings

and i want to replay them softly
in the safety of my own hands