I am my own infinity

The needle– perhaps, yes– is my tongue.
I stitch the seams of loose phrases together; they celebrate
the puncture wound with a sigh, which is just that:
a sigh, but with a distinct peculiarity,
for it is mine. 

I set the table and invite all ghosts for dinner. 
You are welcome here, too
                 (where I sit, unblinking, and
                  respond to your questions with answers
                  that leave little distance
                  what you know now and what you
                  once knew.)

In elsewhere, I seek a shadowed mirror. You see,
I am somewhat sickened
by my own infinity: ever here and there both. 
        I only wish to elope with a tinge of navy– 
        for it to devour me
        the way I do with all. 

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