my mouth has gone

the dark wound where sap dripped so constantly from has not healed at all. rather, there has been a sever at mid-trunk; only my uprooted legs and feet are left to wonder loosely through humid midnight. i am drawing letters in the dirt with my toes, but these are letters who won't associate with the frivolity of bright and astonishing words. these letters are bleak and without passion. they are vulgar in their simplicity. they are meant only for the other nocturnal beasts who roam separately, bound only to amnestic oblivion and to their own dim shadows. they are for the indifferent and illiterate. if you were to stumble upon this wood, and if you were to hesitate upon one of my letters scribbled in the dirt, you would not recognize it as mine. it would spell out nothing. you wouldn't care for it, it wouldn't care for you.

there isn't a word left to write to you, but here i am: still rambling. here i am atop this abandoned mound of words and punctuations, i am the ruler of beginnings and middles and ends which are as tangled/confused/useless as they were when they were living. there you are, the incessant empty space between every piece tangible. the dark matter not at hand. you touch nothing but surround it all. you are no longer among the stars, you are the clouds that blot them.