25.7.15

endless rain into a paper cup

forever spinning; bereft of anything that made her real; leaning against her broken heart fitting it into pieces that would never again be whole; a whole is greater than the sum of all its pieces, fuller, though with what, she would never again understand; she would never again truly see the same things she saw then, at that moment in which she understood everything with utter clarity. a moment that promises to never again come back to her; now she, sunken in a haze, sucks at her cigarette like a twelve year old a straw, snorting when she found nothing funny but felt like laughing anyway and thought it inappropriate at the very last moment when the laugh started to come and she had to stop it. she can mop it up, pick up the pieces and pack it into boxes and leave the boxes next to the garbage cans from where it would disappear only to find itself under the mountains (actual mountains) of garbage that go up in smoke (actual smoke) everyday. if she regretted it, she would regret nothing, because there was nothing inside. she laments nothing more than the loss of her words. the smoke took them away from her so she hides inside a bottle and pretends not to notice. if she is floating in a sea will someone find her and read her; will her words come back to her gushing if she is anonymous inside a bottle? she is worried that poetry will never hold her again at night, stories will never serenade her, songs will never evade her. nothing literal will happen to her again, and she is bereft of anything that roots her to the ground, bereft of solidity, bereft of lucidity; she will remain that way carrying her broken heart in a sea full of salt and sailors too preoccupied to notice her inside the bottle screaming her empty words; spinning forever.

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