So many nights, I
can't fight
the feeling—
the feeling that
feelings might be something I'm only
taking
or leaving.
Why, for the life
of me, I can't quite seem
to screen
this incoming
transmission of cavalcading
drives
and desires for their
use cases,
or (at least) reasons
is a mystery;
the only thing
I'm willing to clearly
perceive is
the awareness
of suspicions—
suspicions which hit
me precisely
as needles—
hot threads
of affection, disinterest,
and hate,
impulses borne
on electrical signals
from an engine
in my body
which is
made
out of light.
