I saw you, a bright, brittle, wood-carved room. Down the stairs, the lowest floor. That old library. Yellow chairs, steel shelves.
Summer heat, numb and vague. Young and ***. Dozens of steps away.
Stickers on paperback books, wildlife, Japanese words.
I was sweating, smudged, my face was ready, ready for the transformation to come.
But I sat and closed my eyes, in the company of one green telephone, and I fell asleep, love forgive me.
The lonely things that fell upon me then, that cut my head, I can't embrace them anymore.
I whisper to myself, as they walk right in, placing things here and there, brand new things, comfortable things, minding me calmly.
I didn't need to speak a word.
I ask myself, "how long?", dirt already adding onto my skin, as I climb into my brand new bed.