Mud to sift through, dig out of his deep eye, white skeleton always exo on him, always waning phantom: his restless dry mouth wandering edges for answers. Skin finding Epsom, abandoned for a song. Lost reels repeating our one scene: his smoke, endless cigarettes while we drive along Ana Island. Red sun up at the stroke of Five, red light, whispered lips so narrow... I want to fold his bones back inside, give flesh, I can't be the one, pushing marrow so innocent and clean, too sensitive for touch. Phantom pain, I'll rise with the sun, no contra's clamor, cold lips' impression.