when the need to write burns in your fingertips instead of its usual tingle
& you pull up an empty window & just go for it like you're chasing in a hard sprint after some wild thing because the keys are always too many seconds behind your thoughts & over & over again feeling the tail slip between your fingertips
so you collapse & catch your breath & settle for describing the feeling of a warm tailtip with the dirt-matted fur in three colors & the residue that it left on your fingers
because you wouldn't even know what to do with that tiger if you caught it besides let it eat you because you're always letting tigers eat you, regardless of whether or not you're still hanging on
you just want some sensation a visceral mess of teeth & claws mangling you into a red gullet
a craw for you to stick in & describe & feel alive in & get devoured so you can really be one with the dirt & grass & trees that you're always too busy telling to just stop & be.