Chills are reminders that something unnatural occurs,
swells of coolness granted by the palms of the unseen—
Who knows if you are shaking hands with the devil
or kissing a sympathetic soul left at a metaphoric train stop.
I hate being defined by my manners:
washing my hands when they feel full of something invisible;
letting my mind float into sleep, seeing faces; or summoning the courage
to speak to an empty room.
Raising the dead sounds as difficult as rearing a child,
but what if it was as simple as acknowledging the natural elements?
Energy doesn’t just…phase out; It must dissolve into a lesser conscious world.