SpookSaber

and as i pour myself out on these canvases i drip over the edges, spilling dots of absence on the hungry earth. they call me jane doe, and i am not art. every evening, i close the door, close my eyes, disassemble. slowly, i've become fleeting. i float, my feet don't touch the ground. how can i crash? i fade, i dissolve, but i've lost the motive to explode. there's no glory in my death; i leave no trace of the dramatic. a man on the train last tuesday nudged me, apologized, and carried on his way. he's the last person who's spoken to me since then. we hit a notch in the tracks, the car wobbled. i stared at him silently, counting the infini