The warmth of the absent
The warmth of the absent sun rays in lines across the carpet remains in the brown darkness. I settle to my knees and trace the alternating warm and cool strips with the tips of my fingers, lost light and old shadows. I dont know how long the edges of the afternoon remain clear before they cool into all darkness. I havent seen it slip away. I dont see things become other things. The streets and rooms are littered with the things that couldnt change, or shed their useless shroud of shapes and wear for a new day. Those are the things I see. The light slicing through the dust in the air is either there when I walk through the apartment or it isnt. If it was, after a still harboured day, I would go to lay in the bed and cover my face, otherwise, it was already night and everything is in the same ink as me. The bits of dust and breath that turned in the air through the blades of sunlight and were warmed have flown into falling currents, and fallen out of order. I throw my wet raincoat under the kitchen table across the linoleum and crawl to it to spread it across the floor to dry slowly and put on the kettle of water. I pull out the stop and fall back onto the carpet. It is cool and night has dropped into my apartment alone.
1 Kommentar
Stick this before the previous entry in your personal draft.