Red Thread

Photo: Pankaj Patel on Unsplash

that rain keeps falling sideways 

is terrible for the illustrative accuracy of my painting.

I could rotate it ninety, but then i'd lose 

the ground i'm planted on. I once assured you 

I wouldn't fall again. that still stands. 

whenever I try to abandon my dreams

they chase after me, through sand and hourglass

shattered in view of a divergent forever. 

I can't outrun them, even with those kicks 

currently resting feetless on the 

doormat. I trust its inscribed cliché about 

the figurative sweetness of what lies ahead. 

despite relentless dust, it never felt like 

we unpacked into the wrong house. 

inflammation is a side effect to be 

remedied with honey and water from the kettle 

left whistling for attention. not every tragedy 

is avoidable. I remain faithful, if anything, 

to not letting this place burn down.  

we prepare a supper spread 

of valedictions, spend the night 

picking out the soft parts, nibbling 

on regret. what we spit out glistens under 

halogen, unstable for having been touched.

it soon goes out and I assume 

you do, too. I act on my exigent 

urge to rearrange furniture, scraping 

their weights across parquet 

for a clean start. scratches 

limit me to a palimpsest. 

sanity first: the neighbours wrap 

a pillow over their ears as they endure 

each permutation and my lack 

of upper body strength. but anyone can 

lift the diaphanous veil, so it won't be 

me who kisses you goodbye 

with the certainty of see you again. 

I witness the first. a christening. 

an excommunication. a star that takes 

so long to die, it's as if it would never. 

I count down the millions 

to supernova, lose track, 

press a gun to its core 

and demand it to blow, or else 

I hope the ricochet finds me. 

this crime of passion, an inevitable 

consequence of gravity. sleep 

restless from all that tugging. you kick off 

the tangle of sheets you disappear into 

every night, leaving the other. 

let's go, and not alone, back to places 

we've never forgotten. overgrown 

undergrowth, berries on their 

nth bloom, detonated by molars.

soft explosions mask the resurgent buzz

of our hearts emptied into a medium

where they dance, miscible.