Ten of Swords

Location services says
she’s right here in my bedroom,
but I’m lost, wandering
the grooves of my mind
that lead to darkness. 
What I want is to violate
the exclusion principle: 
to occupy the exact same space
at the exact same time. 
What I need is to trust 
in the rotation of the earth.

I’ve been walking in shame
experiencing sensation
without feeling, a flux
of information without substance.
Intermingled smells
of food and body. 
A YouTube ad asks me:
Did you know there’s a way 
you can activate Himalayan salt 
so that it melts 
all the fat stuck to your skin?
I’m intrigued against my will.

I did what I was told,
and look where it got me:
thumping around like a shoe
in the washing machine.
I keep turning it in my hands 
trying to find the right angle, 
trying to get a rainbow to come out.
In my dreams I’m rewinding 
the footage to overdub 
a different answer, 
a lie that’s more palatable.
Skimming the surface
of a golden swamp.
Stuck on the vestigial etymology 
of the word “rewind.”

What I want is the moon.
What I need is to be my own sun.