Light fractures as it hits
the chandelier, swaying
over my sprawled body —
ruby, plastic, dripping;
droplets suspended,
each fake crystal an eyesore,
a crater of blood,
bulbs jutting skyward
like memory’s unlit hills.
And you are a chatbot now,
faceless, intangible,
perched on each one,
simulating
human conversation —
an automated answer
for every fast‑typed plea
about an evaporating world
you no longer live in,
cannot detect.
Morning slicing
through the window —
too blisteringly early,
too goddamn silent —
and I slurp my coffee fast,
to hear the drain‑swill,
and allow the heat
to crawl through me
before it turns bitter, icy;
a cold skin forming
as the wick inside crumbles.