A buzzing. A whooshing pressure.

My body is here but where am I?

Deep inside my head

The empty seat in front of me comes back into focus

I dreamt a lacquered coffin

Now I see one

People I should know milling about

Exiled from the family, I keep a respectful distance

This poses a semantic problem for people:

“I’m sorry for… your loss?” Their loss? The loss?

I can’t process this strange mix of emotions

So I stay deep inside my head

And wait for my body to walk away

What shall I do, while I slowly wait to die?

Make a time-lapse movie of my withering decrepitude?

Tell a thousand jokes on Twitter that people will scroll past in their own journey toward death?

In trying to create meaning out of no meaning

We come up with some really strange, elaborate and often internally inconsistent ideas

All of which are designed to distract us from the mirror.

I used to think that you were my home

Without you where would I be?

Not home

Not home

Not home

Not home

Not home

But now I know that I can be home with me

I’m home

I’m home

I’m home

I’m home

I’m home

Sometimes people get erased

You can see the smudges of where they used to be

But they’re not on the current page with you

Home is where my heart is.

But I can’t find my heart.

I’ve spent my whole life in-between

In-between generations

In-between cultures

In-between relationships

In-between homes

If I found my heart, I could dwell there, at home

Happy, decaying blobs of quickly putrefying rot

painfully isolated water droplets seeking and fearing merger

self-aware matter freaked out by the obvious

poets