My mind isn’t a tangle, a tight knot with a loose end somewhere that if only I could find it and pull everything would be fine again. It’s an amorphous, dark, shifting soup. An end comes into focus, I grope for it and it disappears as easily as the sun does when I close my eyes. Clarity is an illusion; sleight of hand. It’s all a trickery.
Stop the swimming, the drowning.
He looks into my eyes and burns my heart.