Sometimes it’s a sound. My deep one. Not the one that gave birth to Xylo but the one that gave birth to a new era of grief. The deep one. The one that finally faced life for what it is. The I want to be healed one, she brings out so much silence. The dreamer. The one whose own tears burn her skin, inflame my lips. My hands and that moment we’ve never had. Come to think of it another one just came to mind. My fourth finger on the left and the moment it’ll never have. I’m performing. All of it is performance. My existence is performance. I give it a meaning. And at night time when your lips won’t reach me. I unknow everything I used to. My heart and the way it’ll beat fast enough and long enough until I cave in and find comfort in guilting myself. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it. It’s okay. Oh you’re better now? Great. Great. Great. I feel better too. Energy. And the way I omit it from my skin quite literally. I needed closer. I need you closer. Closer. Closer. Closer. My voice. I whisper. Please. I send it off with relief.