Naptime

In stolen moments and dashes---inhaling and setting things afire, I draw my own face as if I am absent or blind...to remember me as was. Cuz with you, I don't yet know myself. You are constantly moving, vibrating. What is the pitch, the tone, the note of you in me? It's hard to know with all the old melodies rushing in, attempting to survive you.

Are you, perhaps, not the tune, but the funnel, a conch, the distillator of my cacophany? Maybe this will help me fear you less...the effect of you in me as opposed to me as was.