Landscape

a few days in London will (not) fix me
but keep moving to outrun life
and the dreadful, urgent grey in pursuit
while the dense Atlantic chokes landscape into belief
and I,
to feel…
something
countering the foggy creep.

the smoke monster from Lost wasn’t real
because it never had a name.
being scared of nameless things is the electric lick
of anxiety that wets your brain before bed
when all you want is to love something in
the darkness
without
conductors.

the many tulpas of being…
alive
  /alone/
  in love
    in mourning.

I was a reverse tulpa, form over thought
given a name that I would breathe
against my will on a southern train in January.