Because because. Your blurried effects fall into a sink like Marc Bolan learning to play the harmonica: singing songs of lonesome and knowing dad didn’t know how to bury you when you were gone.
Like a sunset made of compressed air coolant. Like a pop song made of calligraphy pens. Like a number one fan shooting you in the chest. Like a syndicated television series. Like a sinking ship filled with nylon for hot air balloons.
Because because. Your isolated hard drive dives like a people’s plane of filling up gas tanks for abandoned jets: 10 points marked up on the board. Scrabbled as if it was a piano line in the memory of a deaf child.
I am the night sound.
I am that warm feeling you get in your lap after your cat’s been dead for three years.
I am a broken mandolin with hypoglycemia.
Because because. Your secondary thought pattern selected “lean.” And I memorized every birth control pill you’ve been on since your mother’s failed.