these liminal states are bitter medicine

i still remember the ride home north staring out the window of the train at the massive rounded hills that nearly filled the sky (west to my left) covered in tall brown grass and the sunsets that i knew were forming just on the other side of those hills, on the pacific, on the ocean, on the beach, i could see the pink glow cresting in the golden hour, i remember the light fading and the night going deep purple and music on shuffle and indifference. i was outside myself and on days like these i would hate the word gossamer (i would embrace the word gossamer) but i still remember the world feeling

like a film, impossibly thin, atom thin, i thought the feeling would stop if i drew the day in (breathe one, two) and drew the day out (out three, four) but the feeling didn’t end so i never slept, not at night, not in light, never at night (never in light) i would lay awake in my bed listening to the pulse of golden filaments strung through california’s tectonics (they breathe one two) those great golden lines and flickering lives drawn (out three four) across a deathly quiet desert and i had been here in the dark, in the dust, remembering things (things that never happened) things that made me feel that this couldn’t have been real (into gold. into light. into gossamer. into threads. into ink. into dark. into dust into dust)

if i close my eyes i still see those great chords and purple skies those golden lines these heavy sighs (this dust i am) such liminal states so far away in the long dark night, in the starless void in skyless skies in the quiet black (still there are nights) i grasp at words, at threads in space, at twilight tiers and setting suns and verdant grass where I stand waist deep, in dreams of dreams (still) gossamer (seized), in the quiet parts that still can’t sleep, still breathing (four) out (two three), still breathing (four) out (two three), still breathing (four) out (two three), still breathing (four) out (two three)