bereaved raze she has your face. but she can't be you. she speaks of love in a strange city with someone else. she doesn't seem to see me at all. i am a child hiding in an unfinished basement. not encased in a suit of armour, but buried beneath it. a stack of unread pages pinned in place by a paperweight of plated brass. she filches the woven fabric i wear to ward off winter's wet work and leaves me lying supine and exposed on the cold concrete floor. if i stare at the ceiling long enough, if i squint until all the light leaves my eyes, maybe i can unwind time and call back what's been lost. 260306 what's it to you? who go blather from