(In rigidity, in a machine so all-encompassing That home is a state of being; The fans whir, a cool temperamentality settles down Upon our slick, well-oiled hairline fractures— A quiet vibration is the harmony of our life; More so than our heartbeats, and more so than our footsteps and— And the dust that settles within our crevices, A testament to our history, It turns into nothing more than a loud irritant. Yet to the bird, Its feathers congealed by human enterprise, Dust is the filament of its wires, Sat upon and molded, Claimed— through physical occupation, And left— in flight, that natural mechanical marvel. Order, they demand from us, Pairing up our days in constant movement— A weak imitation of a poem, No rhyme, no reason, Days in perfect couplets, Yet no partner for the seventh. That day, that aberration, I now use it to tell the tale of one who bears A loss more profound than that of capital.
YIOPPIEEEEE i love u ever and i’m glad i got to be a part of this <3 <3 <3