Narcotic Repose
I don’t want to talk to you.
Or with you.
Or without you.
I don’t want to sit at ghost tables
Spilling evaporated milk
And waterfalling as my eyes lose you
When your shadow calmly unpicks your embroidered form.
I don’t want to be placed where light slices through gaps
While thinking of where you aren’t.
I especially don’t want to be here –
But I dropped the glass I held against the wall
And I no longer hear you shuffling.
It hurts me.
I spend my days waiting for my seahorse brain
To retrieve you.
I remember you as warm flesh
But it’s becoming more difficult to find you
When I can’t feel my way to you.
(Hotter, warmer, colder, cold).
Familiar you –
You are Cold.
And I am misplaced
Listening to wailing siren silence
Staring at silk emulsion unfinishes
While observing my heart slide off part-decorated walls.
Show me your noise.
The Junkyard 