Untitled: 1/14/22

My thoughts are not always

understood by my mind.

He is a stranger to me—

the brick of dread

that would form inside

my rib cage

as the novels scatter

across my mattress.

Desiderium in the ink blot.

I do not know

what I grieve.

A child I have yet to meet—

a label— Anemoia.

Bricks upon bricks

inside of my breast

pull me down

down down down down

but there is a swing.

A swing beneath me—

the strangest sensation.

Palaver in the leather

of my seat

and it smells like nostalgia.

— ODH