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. 


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