"My atoms feel
weirdly disorganized.”
And dust is falling. 
I think if dust touched me
I would 
become nuclear
and destroy. 
The world is harsh today. 
I am dry kindling, 
and outside it is a fire.
My hands are buzzing
between themselves,
having little conversations
that my ears
cannot pick up on. 
They do not feel like my own.

There is still the stairwell. 
There are still robins
that tarry at the edges of puddles.
There is still the light, 
and dust falls through the light,
and dust does not touch me,
and dust does not become me.
I am walking with the world,
and somehow I am not burning. 
My blood has taken to whispering.
The wind has taken to sighing,
combing its hair, creating currents.
The sky says “Calm down. 
Your atoms will fall 
into place again. 
The state of your heart changes
from storm to stillness. 
You must remember this.”

I breathe, 
and it feels like I am breathing. 
The hoarse voice of memory
murmurs now. 
I breathe, 
and it feels like I am breathing. 
My fingertips touch 
and it feels like they are kissing. 
I may be kindling, 
but somehow I am not burning.