We’re a scene.

A scenery. The idea swallows
the object. You were bagging up my guilt.
Every possible scenario unworthy. We’re not
tumbling anymore; we’re not fresh, or a fresh
pace. We work in shifts, and I’ve lost cleverness,
pattern; I’m just origin. Every time I thought an answer,
I thought, “Here we go again”. Only let’s frame
the deep alone. The loss of gloss, of
syncopation. We’re wild here, no rhythm. I won’t acquire you.
I have no needs. “No needs” runs to leave me.