Listening for Cyrano

I had no eyes. The demon on all fours. Its tail wagging. I couldn't see anything. Except her hollow heaven. I'd sneak in sometimes. Drug up the saints. And leave. Because they're always so fucking sober it makes me sick.

I don't know why. Her dresses never fit. All I remember are her shoulders. How the excess fabric always makes her more beautiful. Small words on gaping pages. To be scrutinized. Until they can disappear again. Content. In the waning oblivion. That inevitably follows.

Don't test. Just jump. He goaded. It's just liquid. And all your pieces will float. But it's not enough. The surface is so anticlimactic after all these years holding my breath.

I'd rather suffocate. At least that would be dramatic.

It always ends in little bombs. Frail explosions. That tear the paper, but fail to move the men.