armpit raze a ligament of light lives here, where tendril meets torso — a break in the shade i've made to shield us both from what would impale us if not for a simple accident of posture. the sun won't stab out our eyes on my watch, though no timepiece has kissed this wrist for as long as i've known the acrid taste of grieving. 250826 what's it to you? who go blather from