I seem to shirk my responsibilities. Shove them under dirt and dust and kiss them softly on their forehead. Wrap my burdens in a tarp, dump them into a deep grave, and wake up to dark wood, polished and smooth and slipping past my fingertips, Holding me slowly in amber, frozen by my own staring so fierce, and still sobbing for ourself, dripping salt and murky blood in your footprints, scattering dirt over my coffers. Why would- shouldn't I rot? Trip into shadowy turf, pass my scabbed over scrawls, scratched into and over, looping and shuffling cards in circlets, encrusted with stains and mess.