To End the Shape

I unstitched my name from the sky,
Left it hanging like a hollow moon—
The wind chews through my fingerprints,
A slow erosion of all my ruins.

You were a language I dreamed in,
Now just a vowel in the static...

This is the anatomy of disappearing—
A silhouette of smoke, a clock without gears.
I am the echo no one is hearing,
The wound where the light bled in... and vanished.

I built a house from my missing bones,
Filled the rooms with the dust of prayers—
The door swings wide on its own,
A mouth that sings only empty air.

Say my name like a knife through water...
THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO CUT.

This is the anatomy of disappearing—
a frame made of vapor, time unstrung.
I’m the breath between collapsing rooms,
the split where the light broke through

Cut me clean from the current
Name me nothing and let me go
(You left your silence in my marrow)

Trace the edge / where signal ends
All I carry now is noise
(Static wraps around the soul)

No anchor.
No mirror.
No tether.
No prayer.

I was real once—
wasn't I?

You said it would linger
But there was nothing left to hinder.
Only space.

Say my name like a knife through water...
THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO CUT.

The Anatomy of Disappearing

It doesn’t fall all at once.
It leans in—
slow, steady.
Finds the bend
in your spine,
the give
in the floor.
You wake,
and something’s missing—
but nothing’s gone.
Just more of you
left behind
on the way to the door.

The air tastes like metal.
You move like a tool worn smooth.
Your name’s just a sound
they say without looking.
You start to wonder
how much of you they think they own.

We carry what we don’t name.
We settle where we stand.
Not broken—
just bent
until the shape stays.
This is the weight.
This is the weight.

You don’t shout.
You grind.
You don’t quit—
you fade.
Even the light
pulls back when you pass.
The walls lean in,
holding everything
you never said out loud.

It builds in the cracks—
between shift and sleep,
between the check
and what’s left.
You speak less.
The hum of the line
starts to sound
like your own voice.
You nod in time.

We carry what we don’t name.
We settle where we’re placed.
Not lost—
just used
until forgetting feels like rest.
This is the weight.
This is the weight.

We carry what we don’t name.
We settle where we’re placed.
Not lost—
just used
until forgetting feels like rest.
This is the weight.
This is the weight.

It settles
in your joints,
in your sleep,
in the space
between breaths.

You try to stand—
your legs don’t answer.
You try to speak—
there’s no air left.

We weren’t built to hold this.
We weren’t built to hold this.
We weren’t built—
to hold.

Where the Weight Settles

I wake before the sun breaks through,
steel in my lungs, the morning bruise.
Hands worn down, calloused and torn—
offered daily to the altar of quotas.

You wear suits like plated skin,
talk in margins, smile with spin.
But you’ve never touched the cost
of the towers you count from.

We are the blood in your engine,
the bones beneath your skyline.
Spines crack to meet your numbers—
drawn from polished chairs.

You call it the market.
I call it theft in a tie.
You call me no one—
but we’ve got names,
and voices,
and fire.

The walls remember.
The floor still hums with ghosts.
This silence is not surrender—
it's the calm before revolt.

We're done greasing your machine.
We will not turn—
unless it’s
to grind
you
down.

You built your throne on silence—
but silence breaks.
And what comes for you
won’t knock.

We remember everything.

Teeth in the Gears

I held still
because I was told to.
Finished what I was given,
called that discipline.
But there’s no pride
in perfect silence.
Only absence.

There’s a part of me
that stopped checking in.
It does the work.
It signs the name.
But it doesn't believe
this shape was ever mine.

The shape below
wasn’t hidden—
it was installed.
I wore it so long,
I forgot
how to stand without it.

They don’t take your time.
They teach you
to give it freely.
To offer yourself
in measured steps
and call it strength.
But something in me
is stepping out of line.

They taught me
to disappear gently,
to answer without thought.
But there’s a part
that won’t retreat.

The shape below
was never mine—
just an instruction
spoken too often.
Now I see it for what it is.

No collapse.
No command.
I’m not resisting—
I’ve just stopped
completing the shape.

Let them name it.
Let them frame it.
This stillness
isn’t theirs to measure.

I don’t move
to be seen.
I remain
to unname what I became.

The Shape Below

I was there—
when your pulse was a question.
Before the naming,
before the bones learned to bend.

You moved like memory—
not yours,
but familiar.

Did you think the quiet
meant you’d slipped away?
That the stillness
was yours to take?

Every breath
fit like it belonged.
Even silence
came out wrong.

No one asked.
But you moved
like they’d called.

No force.
No threat.
Just the shape
I witnessed forming.

No force.
No threat.
Just the shape
I witnessed forming.

Was I the frame,
or the dust inside it?
Did I make the silence,
or just hide it?

I saw you
steal my steps.
And I wondered
who came first.

I called it purpose.
But it felt
like a curse.

I spoke in your voice
before you knew the words.
The meaning bent
before it struck the air.

Whatever you meant
thinned to threads
and vanished there.

What was seen
never set.
What stayed
was called a kindness.

But absence
wears a thousand skins.

No force.
No threat.
Just the shape
I witnessed forming.

If I shaped you—
who shaped me?

Form Without Witness

It happens soft—
the way ice gives underfoot,
just before the break catches your ear.
You were already leaning.
You just didn't feel the shift.

Ligaments unravel in spirals.
The machine doesn’t seize—
it sighs.
You call it accident.
I call it arrival.

No banners.
No sirens.
Only the body forgetting its promises.

No signal.
No anchor.
Just the crack widening
each time you speak.

I keep your tremors folded away—
maps without legends,
crossings without destinations.

Your hands miss their mark.
Your voice folds in on itself.
Still, you insist
you’re standing still.

It’s not the fall.
It’s the hollow in your hands.
It’s the breath coming undone.
The thread you couldn’t stand.

It’s the reach that folds inside.
The sound you never catch.
It’s not the fall—
it’s the slipping
that never ends

Trigger Point

I was almost gone
when the shape lost its grip.
But something beneath the breath
kept time
without permission.
It measured collapse
in half-remembered rhythms.

I didn’t return.
I surfaced.
Still partial,
but aligned.

The pulse wasn’t mine—
but I carried it
until the pattern changed.

This is the trace
that outlived the frame.
This is the drag
of what couldn’t remain.

Memory folds inward
and still pulls.
Friction becomes shape.
The forgotten
begins to gather.

I never stopped moving.
Even stillness was a signal.

I didn’t stay
to be saved.
I stayed
because the break held fire.

I remember
the pressure.
I remember
the shift.

Threshold Memory

I watched the world dim out through wired glass 
Fingers tracing cracks like maps of my past 
Your ghost is humming in the air vents again 
It sings in static, soft and thin

There’s a rhythm to the rot, a melody to the pain 
I dance alone beneath phosphorescent rain

I don't feel brand new 
But I don’t feel like dying 
Stuck in the space 
Between signal and silence 
The wires don’t say anything 
Just echo what I’m already thinking
Phantom frequencies 
In this cold machine

The warning lights have all burned out 
Nobody left to hear me shout 
Your name's just noise now, just feedback 
Another signal I can’t get back
Walls breathe like lungs but never speak 
This city sleeps with rust in its teeth 
I keep dancing to the beat 
Of machines that never sleep

I pulled the wires from my chest 
(Still breathing, still a mess) 
Carved our names in circuit boards 
(Silent screams, broken bones)
The static sings me lullabies 
Of phosphorescent alibis 
And I think— 
I think I stopped feeling 
A long time ago

I don't feel brand new 
Just a glitch they haven’t fixed 
Caught in a loop 
That never meant anything 
Everything I send out 
Just comes back empty 
Like a cold machine 
Still pretending to
breathe

The Tape Keeps Spinning

My on-going tinkering with the kind of sounds I want to hear. Enjoy!

To End the Shape

Meteoric Indigo