A little thunderstorm runs around my feet
Then skitters under the sofa.
He is one of many.
I see them in my cabinets sometimes
and once walked into millions of them in the attic.
They scattered.
A feral book leaps off his shelf and
onto the lonely sofa I no longer sit on
because I cannot linger.
My disease watches me all the time,
nestled in my skull.
It will attack me from the side
Rip my smiles open and empty them out.
I work all day to stay on the move.
Light is always trying to hide behind the future
so I am constantly pushing millions of beams forward.
The shy scent of water cloaks me
as the desert outside the window searches for me.
More bones are always needed.
My disease sings.
My disease plays.
My disease paints the back
Of my eyelids with sand.
The thunderstorms feed
on my crumbling tears
Miniature Moon 