Perfect

The glass accordion swells as I walk down the stairs. Fracturing as it wheezes out the sound of my descent.

And it contracts in the same way. Prismic shards of skin heave to the boast of tired organs. As they gracelessly combust from inside the cage of my skeleton. Imagining there is. Or could be. Something other than disease in this biopsy we call living.

Pretending the glass can breathe. As it cracks out its only song.

I go down. With the light in my hand. And I don't go up again until I've put it out.

The glass accordion has a beautiful song. But it can play it only once.

Perfect as a puzzle I can't solve.