I often end up in the same space
before waking damp and shaking
where the lights go on forever:
pallid and fluorescent,
aged and lingering,
never reaching the smoothness of those
ivory tiles.
It begins at a white table
in the cafe of a shopping mall;
the stores open but empty
no exits, just a cool cup of coffee.
Light never penetrates the opaque skylights.
The edges fold into themselves, close
but untouchable
as the notion of stickiness
creeps over me.
My body sinks into the chair.
You
always a different you,
a faceless you
step towards me,
deliberately,
from the hall that leads to nowhere.
You’re much taller than I remember,
and calm.
I reach for you, but your body stays
just inches from my fingertips. We
speak soundless words,
echoing inaudibly
until I shrink
and the scent of candy bananas and
stale tobacco
writhes from the edges of the table.
Your face turns cold and veiled,
the bitter taste of powered sleep
seeps into my cheeks
like that endless summer some years ago
clings to my blood,
still.
The vision halts
and I’m in the yellow room again,
fighting for fresh air,
waiting for an invisible phone to ring
from the empty cracks in the floor.
or for the walls to end
or my feet to touch the ground.
أنت تقرأ
Celestial Thoughts
الشعرI'm constantly ebbing between states of complete creative blockages, and endless streams of consciousness flowing through my hands. Here's a few poems to come out of the strangeness of the past two years. I hope you enjoy :)
