by: m. gantee

How do I tell you?  How do I begin to say that I am here but not so much here?  My body aches, flakes, and dissipates.

It becomes more like the dirt although it is not dirt but yet the dirt wants to marry it, to make it its own, and to hold fast to it until it obliterates and it is no more.  And then – then – dirt is dirt and this rhetorical byway becomes inconsequential.

The thing that is now its own is owed to the ground.  One thing, not quite the same as the other, regardless tends toward that other.

As all things do.

Flew.

Shoe.

Adieu.