I want to write about the invisible things.

The conversations I have with swing sets while I wait for you each midnight.
The sawdust ones that taste like ash and pencil lead. The sentences that leave my pallet hot and sifted like sand paper. Secrets composed of dry molasses.

I cough as you approach. Shorts in February. A wifebeater in a lightning storm.

“Getting sick?”

Perhaps of hypotheticals.

And conversations chiseled out on stone tablets that no-one reads because they’re mistaken for tomb stones.

Words left to commemorate the dead.

Invisible stories hailing heroes. saviors in synthesiastic poets who deal in a drug called triviality.

We chatter as crows, pecking away at pebbles

While the invisible things lie buried in the woodchips that splinter our feet

And the morning dew that coats our wound in metaphysical morphine

Blanketing our skin in thorns we can’t feel and invisible things that

we don’t want to.