Languor (redux)

His word, his breath,
Are merely synecdoche —
Ephemeral.

Nothing is true in the true
Sense of the word.

He drifts on the Lethe,
Intoxicated by water that transforms —
A trip into languor —
And never sets foot on the other shore.

What I’m Reading:

Once a dying woman said goodbye on Twitter right before she died. Sometimes I go onto the accounts of dead people and read their final posts. I listen to music while scrolling. The people singing in my ears are also dead. It is getting harder to be born and to vanish at once. Isn’t this what we all wanted anyway?

— Victoria Chang / “Buds, 1959”