The patterns
you should know them by now,
flickering lanterns
against grey, a furrowed brow

There is something to be said of the way my heart sinks like it’s never known air, pulling, pulling until my whole chest caves in. It would help to know why. Or to know when. How? It does it like it’s spent centuries, eons practising. Like it knows to do this better than it knows to beat, like it’d rather be doing this than going lub-dub-lub-dub–dub. Nothing sets it off, or everything does–songs, echoes, words untrue and borne of pure imagination, words that are anything but.

You’d think my lungs would float but all they know is moss, seemingly collecting the anchors of a thousand ships safely within their walls, waiting only for a signal to fling themselves out into murky depths I will not be able to find my way out of. 

My eyes do not burn underwater. I’m sure there was a time they did, but I cannot remember it. 

An implosion, muted, a few weeks ago, then again last week, and now, and next month and forever. Would the vacuum created suck everything else in, too?

It would just help to know why. 

sincerely,
simran.

I have awaken once again from my unannounced slumber. I don’t know if people still read this, but if you do, I’m very grateful and I hope you’re staying safe.