Through their blank eyes they speak their dead words as if they are them. They caress their means of existence as an exhibition of ritualistic rounds, with their spittle dried around the edges of their mouths giving way for the darkness to feed among each closing and opening of their haunted caverns; they truly believe they are among the structure of it all. And exactly as they are, we see.
I’ve not seen anything built so strongly as the crushing greyness of the waning winter hours. As though the great gurgling of Spring is hushed by a diluted punishing lack of light; the voice of time had very little left, and all of us feeling its weight, are tightly packed into our seclusions searching through the greyness for the smallest of exits.
The bus was crowded and I didn’t have time. You crowded me further with your pink eye. You told me that you could change your eye color at will. I didn’t believe you. I watched from the bus window as you walked to your door. Your house was dark. The steps were old and wooden. Your house had broken walls. Now you’re gone and I still don’t know if you changed your eye color.
Let’s talk about stealing. No, let’s. We’ll do this together and then- If you want to call stealing the memory of a moment, then you can be one and the same as. As what? A shower is hot. The steam rises. I try and not look. You are pressing and against the wall showing. The steam can’t hide all. I watch the drain. Swirls find me finally.