we are when we aren't

there's a constant tug in the
back of my throat
and when i inhale, it
goes away for while
and when i exhale,
i count stars in the
grey clouds.

thoughts have been
throwing themselves
and i swallow obediently.
if there is any depth
under book covers—
under tree bark—
under eyelids—
i can't tell, and
that alone

is such

a sad

thing.