Beour

with an almost off-white, blackwhite wall
paper told eyes, still human eyes, eyes
that had seen but not heard what it meant to be seen
that for every winter swallowed, a reborn would find it's way

whether reborn or stillborn, you were still born, they will say
and upside down or right side up
either way
you'll roll past their newspaper noses
each and every one popping your qwiffs
your waves becoming linear
(And now they can trace you)
(something even your mother struggled)
and since lucky ears stay shorelines when other waves, noises,
stumble upon them,
they'll argue, 'when they entered, those too became traces'

they dare you to find them, and you close your eyes for what feels
like the warmest amount of time
until everything you can taste is pink
and everything you can feel is white
and your only smell peptides