To Patti Smith/Imogen Heap

I want to be like Patti Smith,

who melts into her surroundings.

And it scares me that my

brain can melt.

But I can’t melt away,

as much as I melt my brain.

And I hate gaps.

As if I’m Imogen Heap

stuck between rows of speeding cars.

It’s busy in front of and

behind me. But not where I am.

Stuff happened, and stuff will happen.

But where I am there is nothing. 

It is still. Silent.

But I don’t dare for it to be anything else.

Frozen with an emptiness and a fullness.