disparaître

I wish i was just on a floating chunk of land with a tree loosing it’s leaves near the moon. My pockets full of flowers. Or at the bottom of some lake that wants to be the sea. My pockets full of stones. Anywhere but here. Anywhere away from this tremendous table adorned with dead daisies and dirty dishes. All i see are chips in the plates and cracks in the cups. There are vines crawling up the chairs and wrapping around the forks and spoons and knives.
You’re just falling asleep at the opposite end of the monstrous table. It’s unbearable. You’re eyes should be open. They should be opened. You should be looking forward. They aren’t responsive. But, there is nothing i can do. There is nothing you would do.
There are ghostly guests here. Hollow or expressionless sitting in colossal chairs. I can’t peel my eyes from your hidden eyes to see theirs, revealed. I am not even sure if their feet can fall to the ground from such a height, but i am also aware that it doesn’t matter.
I’ve been etching in the table for some time for someone to read between the lines. You’ve been weaving a rope. A heavy rope. Full of fire. Full of treachery, fights, fading. So on & so forth. Untie it from me!
I’ve been thinking back to the small cities in the small cracks in the cement. The ones we built together. I’ve been wandering around the eerie towns. The clearer ones. Searching, seeking, stumbling on the cracks. The tiny rifts.
There are people here with exposed organs. There are no knives. No lies. All glory. No pride. The flowers are alive. They’re divine and remarkable. Embellished with colors you have never seen.  The rain is on high and in syncopation with my slow heart beat. Steady and shy. Barely audible. I’m not even sure if it is making a noise. It’s this background cry. That useless noise, the kind you keep up to avoid the awful loneliness. It’s a sad or sorrowful, boring song. Barely audible. I’ve found myself turning it up. Only when I realized the song was there, I decided raise the volume.  And it’s proving to be more difficult than i anticipated. It’s beautiful. It’s a downpour.
There was rest found upon old grave sites. I sought out peace in this burial ground and encountered it beyond the calamity. The quiet was a commotion and i let it cradle me. Because i found my way around but can’t find my way back, again. There’s this stupid rambling that I have to ramble on about. It’s foolish. But, it’s been stuck to the sides of this brain. To the walls of my heart. I can’t find a reason to write in place of you, it’s not worth it. But it’s plaguing me. And the skeletons are more than receptive and willing to eavesdrop.

I’ve become less bitter with the late nights. And discovered something close to bliss with the pale morning sun. I might march around the walls but still..My heart is empty, unfurnished. 

It’s simple and extravagant.