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(A reworked draft of the first post I made this month)
There is a lull
that comes with the humidity.
It’s a sedating silence that
trickles in from the streets.
There are a lot of walls,
plain white walls,
that stare me in the face
and refuse to partake in the conversation.
I look out the window to the sky
and see thick clouds rolling by.
They can’t stick around.
They have places to be.
The thing is, I try to remind myself,
as the desperation bubbles inside,
At those heights, there are no streets
and there is no logic to limit movement.
Meanwhile, the muscles begin to atrophy
and new, lazy pains pulse
throughout the body,
mainly in the legs and knees.
I am sinking into the gap
between one sofa cushion and another
like a penny that has
slipped out of a jean pocket
into a dark underworld of
dust bunnies, hair balls, pens, and paperclips,
which wont get found for another year
when someone misplaces their cellphone.
I tried to sing to the paintings on the white walls,
see if they would join in, but I stopped promptly
because none of them looked remotely human
and some were outright menacing.
The two ghosts that live with me
don’t like to rise above a whisper,
except when then they laugh out loud, sounding really chummy,
but only in another room at the far end of the hall,
and I never go there.
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