centennial

i.

Your chair was empty again, today. I polish the table, I dust the shelves, I wash the salt shakers. I do not touch your chair.

It gathers dust.

ii.

My palms smell of sweat. I think of a safe haven and drive all the way to the beach, but the ocean smells more of metal than salt, and all my knuckles crack.

iii.

Pieces of me keep falling off. I tack butterflies to a globe, but the world is flat. Science tells you that day and night are the results of earth’s rotation, but the phases of the moon bring tidal waves to your shore, and you cannot explain away the dark using gravity.

iv.

The streets outside are always empty. The attic has mothballs, but not a good view. I’d pack my body into a box and ship it to my mother, dismantle my breaths and distribute them amongst paper flowers,

but then I’d still have this

empty room

to deal with.

v.

Love takes up a lot of space. The telemarketers will not leave me alone. I move boxes to the attic but the dining room is naked. Somebody tries to sell me a coffin. I drown myself in salt shakers. Television doubles as white noise. I cut off the telephone cord. I am busy, busy, busy.

vi.

Your chair is still empty.

I do not touch it, so one day, soon, dust can gather all its limbs,

Throw its head back,

and make a home out of the

emptiness.

 

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