Silent Architecture

Encryption is the night’s language, the only language, the dust shaking
from the scaffolds and all the steps once bleached in old daylight
tip-toeing in morse code, don’t ask about the ripped bed sheets —or why
you keep forgetting your last name. The possibilities of silence are better,
a cocaine angel that paints your face and relapses elegant stacks of smoke.
Take in every vice besides friendship and you’ll live forever. It’s science.
Your car is crashing, only you know how the dance starts, how to end it. It is the introversion, inverted, the catalyst never quite good enough,
authenticity’s mirage worn as tired masks. I say all this under the vein
of the night. I say this while all but parasites sleep, and white dwarfs rush
over the floodgates and splinter into a hundred wounded flowers.
I say all this and wonder who hears.

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