A Man Without a Story

Mark? Jack? Miles? Jason. broods in the corner, eyes (fierce, as written) on me. He steps my every step mouth, only mode of expression, stuck to my ear. In the dark he hovers over my bed he climbs on top of me, dead weight on my heart I want, I want, I want, I want close breath down my spine still grasping for language like Shelley’s monster his stiff corpse’s fingers wrap around my wrists dragging them to paper his new word expelled in long-still air on my neck please a person as much as you, or I should be careful what I bring to life out of bits and pieces of men that I found and stitched together with the hash marks of words.