I stare at the empty side of my bed,
and wonder about the things
I would tell you
if you were laying right
Next to me
(1) when I was little
a flowerpot fell from the balcony
and i stared at the beautiful mess
all the pieces had made
until I became sad
it wasn't until I got much older
that I started feeling sad
for the balcony too
(2) I remember in November
Knuckles turning purple as the leafs turned orange
My hand, a bruised, gnarled, yellow and indigo mess
How did this amazingly unfortunate injury happen?
I was punishing the walls
That saw my loss
But stayed quiet
(3) the world is too bright,
so I filter it into sepia tones gentler to the mind's eye and swim to where the water meets the clouds.
I am drowning,
but not from the ocean's relentless caresses,
but from the world's relentless stresses:
beauty that is measured and calculated,
saturated with standards that burn like the sun and are as intangible as its rays,
a paradise built on sand as quick as it is to judge.
I swim to where
the water meets the clouds.
where the water
is still water,
and I am still me.
