from the top
of my mind
that I would do anything
to stop myself
from decomposing.
And yet,
there's something
in experience
which shows me
this is wrong:
it's something about
the comforting feeling
of a lozenge on the tongue;
the way I perceive
the sweetness
more clearly
the more its clean edges
seem to soften
and dissolve;
the way I seem
to love
even the smallest
bit of my understanding
most
the instant
before it's gone.
