Artifacts

My thoughts are creepers 

Which grow, leaning against reality,

Watered by the night in all its darkness 

And dewdrops in the form of stars that twinkle:

Cool to the touch, glistening with hope

Wrapping themselves far too tight 

Around me – alive and also not, 

like a goat for sacrifice. 
I blink. 
My hands are free to wander 

Above, around, beneath, below:

Against the grain, and sweat from bodies

From which I pull all of my despair out and hang 

It out to dry in the heat of the sun when 

My thoughts shrink back into their pod

disappear from the recesses of mind 

Like acetone off linoleum.
I inhale. 
My mouth unveils my verses 

And raises the hair on the back of his back 

And my neck to stand in ovation, respecting 

The distance between us, like water on the edge 

Of a waterfall receding – slowly; to the rhythms

Of instruments facing extinction, sacraments

Of single copy smudged by fingers of overuse 

Like the language of love. 
I laugh.
My eyes are suddenly a fertile

Ground for tears, a fabric ripped apart 

From the seams of feeling by the agonies

Of life: such is the story, that if I wove every tear 

In this stained tapestry together, close into 

A circle, and hung it with feathers from 

Birds that sing of murder and sleep

It still wouldn’t catch a dream. 
I turn around. 
I walk away. 

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House of Grief

The grass is always green on the other side of the glass. Your side is a trap, a greenhouse – it traps you in with the heat, with the helplessness, and it chokes you. The glass is soundproof, and you, like a caged animal in a zoo –  they can all see you, no less as a spectacle, but none can help. None want to, either, for it’s too risky a business – these animals are known to have a sharp bite.

Your house is a funny place, full and empty at the same time – you crave company but won’t wish for anyone to go in, or through, it. You find a new door every time you go looking for the key out of another. It isn’t your house anymore. The house renovates itself. The house owns you, just you – one rentier, one tenant, no boarders allowed.

Maybe a distant lover is your best bet.

So, when the moon peeks through your window at night, you get used to it. You wait for it – the guest knocking on the sill – without even knowing, not aware that your own vacancy signs are alight.

But it knows. It sees, it hears, and one can see the ghost of recognition on its greying face. It suffers, too, silently telling the story of its own plight.

The moon gets smaller and smaller as it consumes itself to satiate an inherent appetite for self-destruction. It takes a holiday ever so often, trying to digest the meaning of its own being. It disappears. The world – your world – is plunged into darkness. The harsh daylight hurts your eyes. The never-ending blackness numbs you down. You wait. It’s cold in here.

The moon reappears, vomiting itself out, forcing growth; all because you’re alone with the night. It walks with borrowed light, always beside you even as you try to run away from the house – especially when you try to run away from the house.

The winds tell you that the moon is in love. You do not believe them, for they do not exist in your world – the window is shut, and nothing comes in or out of it.

Wolves wail at the sight of your white-faced lover at his prime, they say that the shadow on his face is beautiful too. If you listen carefully, you see that the sounds of laughter and wailing are indistinguishable without the emotion. You know how to tell them apart, for you’ve been roommates with grief for a long time. Some say that the moon is friends with her.

You’ve lived together for so long that you think you are friends with her, too.

And how it hurts.

On some day suspended in the time after you stepped inside; the floorboards creak under your careful – but unsuspecting – footsteps as you go looking for the feeling you have been living with, but she is gone. Your lover has wished her away. Your lover, a mere reflection – of your worshipped suitor, of its own daring enemy, the Sun – lacks the heat which makes its competitor dangerous. But he has wished grief away. He has pushed her out, and in her place, there is nothing. Nothing.

The moon never decided to come in himself, either. It stood on its perch in the sky, your lover from far away.

Grief packed up well. She left without a trace, like she was never there. Like she never set foot in a place you verily named after her. And now there’s no reason for your sadness. Now, you’re just alone in a house with no name, waiting.

The grass is always green on the other side of the glass. Your side, it is but a memory.