Saturday, January 11, 2014

bad sign.

Laying here
staring at the ceiling
watching ticking insects
fall by the side of the bed,
sick for a nostalgia
of a few years ago,
sentimental viruses
infecting synapses and ambitions.

The light from outside smells like an old song
that used to be danced to
in a parents living room
when the idea of parents
being away
meant freedom.

The bed feels like a bad sign
that’s yet to be lived, some crazy feeling,
which is somewhere in the future.
Someday I’ll feel
as I do at this moment and will
have to remember
to write it down when it happens.

The head feels heavy
with whomever I spent the night with,
years from now, I will recognize
that she was only a creature
that had been neglected.
Lost to a collection of memories,
none of it could be properly
pasted together.
In each tiny sliver,
I will see her face looking at me.

Focusing on current predicaments,
pedestrians flocking
from a bus stop at the corner,
each one carrying mementos
of themselves to remind them
of things no one wants to speak of.