Mar 21
I have yet to let the silence fill me completely.
Only words remain — pale husks, soundless,
yet screaming in the marrow of my ears.
I alone bear their rotting weight,
the brittle corpses lining my tongue.
Who else? I speak into hollow rooms,
my voice scattering like dried leaves.
Who else will watch you crash into the moon,
then spill into my half-empty glass
of fumes and restlessness?
The sun will rise tomorrow, unknowing
of the raw labor it takes
to lift my body from its grave of sheets,
my heart a stone, unmoving.
The ceiling gnaws at the sky —
its teeth sink into my hours.
Dusk, with her damp palms,
presses me into forgetting.
And yet, from the balcony,
I see distant cities glitter like broken jewelry.
I do not ache for their songs,
their spinning dances, their crystal plates.
But the crowds — the crowds —
let them tear me limb from limb:
arms, legs, flesh, bone,
the soft, spoiled fruit of my mind —
let them take it all,
until nothing remains of yesterday’s weight.
Only leave me these eyes,
so I may witness the undoing.
