Keeled to Scuttle

I sit in the roil of your thoughts thinking up ways to count to one-hundred-and-one backwards without exhaling one single breath. I recline in the decumbency of your memory, scheming ways to steal your yet to be thought, thoughts, thoughts best left to forgetfulness and shitty reasoning. I lie in the hammock of your dreamscape swung side to side like a ship keeled to scuttle, sunken into the shallows of your cheeks, where fleas’-bodies and Joseph K’s spiny carapace collects apples, russet cores braded to twiggy legs, jimmying like millipedes on PCP. I am tired, too tried to continue this servitude, this slavery to your thoughts, the time lost in between, all those thoughts yet to be thought, memories yet to be had, memories to be forgotten.