i stopped doing my dishes for eight days straight. 

i look for it in everything and find it waiting for me every time. 

i am stardust, i am wounded animal, 

i am repeating myself and wonder if the cycle is to be broken still.

is the snake biting its own tail well fed? 

is there a contentment that i am missing? and what happens if there is?

i hold it in the palm of my hand,

and show off my collection of fears, my dreams too.

they say they have met before and tell me deacons likewise must be dignified, not double tongued.

i decide in that moment to no longer leave it unspoken and there seems to be a clarity of sorts.

the snake has not gone hungry in years. which means it hadn’t had dinner with its friends either. 

what a lonely existence i think to myself.

so i do my dishes, i let go of the grip i thought i’d had only to discover claw marks on everything i own. 

i remove his contact info and there it is, as promised. i sit with it, like i should and fear not all closed doors hold something of relevance. i hide the key in my front pocket.