I still move

we grimace at anything unmoving.

a dead spider, with its

thin stick legs disfigured in the nook of your desk.

fat bugs full of spite,

sitting in the sill of your window

that you hadn't checked in ages

--they glare at you with a look of danger in their eyes,

about to lunge at you at a threatening speed

and stain your skin with

the essence of its 'what-was' existence.

the iridescent and delicate wings of an unseen,

prickly and dark unknown insect dusting every layer of your bookshelf,

and you wonder where they come from.

they're all unmoving, they must all be dead.

i've just wiped that dead spider off of the cable holes of my desk,

and carefully picked the pieces of lizard shit off of it with pieces of tissue.

i can feel that same essence of dirty and stained existence on the tips of my fingers--

while i still write, while i'm still moving.

the awful need to wash my hands takes over.