wtf pwm

I could perceive
the lines of sun
on the wall, the blinds'
framing of light, as a
self made jail
but it feels more like
an ephemeral road map.

I have written text
messages, poems, and
choreography notes, you
would think my hands
might require rest.

This room is over a
hundred years old.
I want to trace myself
here.

I want my sweat inside
its walls. I want my
heart and finger nails
on the ceiling.

There are moments of
great suspension. But I
know I'll have to settle
for dust and tangled
chords. The forms of
false preservation.