A table setting for one.
A breath can wrinkle time’s fabric. Creating bumps and turns
under the freshly placed silver wear. A breath can breed letters that scoop
together words. It can direct thoughts into actions even if the thoughts
themselves were never there. Thoughts whimper under the pressure. Actions
become hallow. They crumble back into the hard earth.
A single movement can catch breath deep into the throat. To
quench dry aired desires and moisten them with hope. A single muscle can build a person. So many
people fall away in time’s seconds, to be wiped clean by the death of cells
that are too small to see. People rise up again in their wake to claim change.
To vindicate their memory in the face of a million of memories. The people choose
the ones that they were born out of. They live for change, to grow for change.
They do not change.
The sun burns hot upon the white dust. It scorches against a
sky so blue with water it contains heaven. The sun cuts right through paradise
and hits the red rocks. Man breaths the
air below wrinkling time with his hands. He creates bumps and turns in a
freshly placed table cloth. But he is careful not to rip the fabric when he
sits down to eat.
Dreams circle my mind like running water. They fall down my
throat into word inscribing visions of nothing, wisps of dust that vanish with a fallen hand.
Two heads pulled up against a head board, reading books
about worlds that can’t be touched. Their eyes grow lazy as one head falls
against a shoulder. Their flat thoughts lay under the fading sun. Two bodies like puzzle pieces are
intertwined. Fingers travel to the places of unspoken words. Two books are stacked on the bedside table
that vibrates from the quacking floor.
I pull my knees up to my chest as I wave at the dust and
remember the only thing that matters after a long day. I tell myself the same words
that I say every night before dreams take me. His love will never change. It
always will be this way.
Are we rubberneckers watching the same car accident each
time thinking that lady won’t turn right? Or are we fragments inside a
paragraph? Thoughts like hiccups that people who love to construct boxes are
forced to ignore. Is this who we are? Or are we two people blowing in the wind
inside a place that holds no weight. While others wait in whisky we wait in
thoughts, thoughts that are not ever our own to have.
Our words are inside of a world that has no context. It is
so generic we need a third party to connect us. A world that we signed up for
when we choose our names. Is this the world, a life not yet lived sandwiched in
between our real lives? Is it us or is it everything else? Or is it nothing at
all? And this relationship has just been a dream at two am. When I wake up in
the morning you will be gone and so will this nagging feeling like I have
forgotten you.
Was it something I
missed in between the blank in box and the send button? Was there a thought
sandwiched between my actions that I am leaving behind inside of all these
questions. Was there an answer? My mind is tired tonight in this late hour. And
yet you are still here listening to me ramble on about questions that will
never be solved.
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