gravity is a myth

odd gravitational
fluctuations
have my stomach
doing cartwheels
laying in the dark
waiting for the world
to go to sleep
so i can have
the ceiling
all to myself
without the reminders
even as i lie
to myself on a
constant repetitive
progression from
plaintive to pleading
to stop picking scabs
to play along
with the lavender
flashes right behind
my rippling eyes
that out there
all is business
as usual
things refuse to
stop in deference
to inconsequential
rigorous painshivers
leaving me to paint
with the blood
running down my lip
blowing coppery kisses
into the aether
hoping they find you
before the evening
is finally through

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