bread_that_expires_on_your_birthday raze while the half_moon hides behind a chimney that's never felt the sting of smoke snake through its throat, the_music_of_crickets lulls me to sleep. in a cupboard forty-three steps from here, a polystyrene clip branded with the date of my birth seals a bag stuffed with an amalgam of pumpkin seeds, sea salt, honey, molasses, brown sugar, hemp meal, chicory root, canola oil, spring water, and wheat. after i dream of music that moves me to tears and spar with an actor who finds humour in the fracturing of everything i've fought for, i walk through a house without windows or walls. a man and his son invent a game with nothing but their shared imagination to guide them. no screens. no props. the way we used to play when we were young. "i have to try," the boy says. "but if i kill you, that doesn't mean you can't come back." his father smiles. he knows things about living and dying his son wouldn't believe if he told him. a woman who's aged back into her youth cradles her cream-coloured pomeranian like a child still learning how to crawl. the triangle-shaped glands above his kidneys won't make enough of what his body needs. i touch the back of his head. if marshmallows felt the way they taste when they're turning to syrup on our tongues, they'd feel like this. every soft hair on her upper lip is a prayer that he'll last long enough for her to give him the life he deserves. the fur baby i love best runs to my feet before they can carry me home. i fish something precious out of my pocket and tell her what i need her to know. i could be speaking to you. "you're my favourite. i'll always love you." 220810 what's it to you? who go blather from