Pneumonia

I went back and removed all the i's. Added some you's. For the sake of depreciation. Time being so hard on old friends. Fair market value being cynical at best. There's only one proper way to fill a glass. Tilt it. Let the liquid flow down the sides. So that it has a chance to get to know what stranger is about to fill its hole.

It's not writing. This ritual I do. It's fever. It's the thermostat. It's the pins and needles in dying skin.

It's not art that sweeps me into this position. Curled over the keyboard. Knee to chin. It's vice. Every word lets loose another bite of stale salvation.

Every sentence makes me a child again. Unsure. Unaware of what I want. And what I have. Stiff petals on the floor fold the little light into names I can't recall. As every sip drinks a new scab.

The balloon smiles briefly just before the pin penetrates. But it laughs as it bursts. And everything not inside finally reveals itself.