Everything is still,
my heart beats
stationary, still

I prayed.
My roots need water. I said:
“My cheeks can hold a bit of moist,

but not too long and
I slid back into the tunnel today.
My own, ok?”

Ever after I was told
the hippocampus looks like a horseshoe
I’ve tried to run away.

So now I’m here, in my globe of slow snow,
where tiny flakes
erase the world.

Its eyes.
Its mouth
Its impossible gaze.

I simply forget to unravel my body
through my throat
by saying

that I need you and how I’m fading and how solo
sounds like sorrow
when you repeat it

again.
And again.
And again.