“I’m in a long distance relationship where my girlfriend never tells me what she is doing.”
Bored. Boring. Borderer.
Let me sit inside my welt
For (I) lost time
To hold it and to grasp
It’s meaning, not to be some dumb girls ramblings in the night
It wishes for more,
This old time
Boredom. Boring. Bored.
The Thief by Michael Faudet
- for just one second let me breathe as myself!
Let me live
biscuits in the kitchen as I wish to.
Love? No, just the biscuits please.
Invisible, indivisible, unadvisable. (Unobtainable)
Get out – I’ll consider it.
Kindness, it melts all over my nice (clean) kitchen.
Mercy, it strokes my hair.
Empathy, it breathes quickly into each strangled breath
and Love? – quick Socratic Love sits on my chest and weeps.
In this red kitchen
Love sits in the hollow space of every spoon.
They stood so close their breath pushed against one another. The frosted air creating ephemeral tendrils of smoke. He took her hand is his. She pulled away. He tried once again. No. His skin cracked as he walked. Not parched or lonely or widowed or broken, but cracked.
Listen – at home he put his feet underneath himself. Drawn into a little pretzel, and lay on the floor as that. His mother came home, hands alight with groceries, and asked why on earth was he lying on the floor in the lounge room like that. He told her he liked the patterns. The patterns on the rug seemed to chase and beckon after one another. It was inspiring. To see such life in an inanimate object.
After gazing into inanimation, he murmured to his room. Here the ceiling is what brought him peace. No pattern. No detail. No life. Simple cream. The cream spread from the corner in the bottom left, to the top right, arching out to cover every inch, centimetre, and millimetre. No dints. No chips. No cracks. Simple.
His eyes tricked him
Here and there, a dot. A speck. Of dust perhaps? No, a flaw. A flaw in the perfection. This caused a deep unsettling. He ran to his mother. Told her she must call a painter. Or at least buy some new paint herself. It was all wrong. All wrong. All wrong. He clasped her to his room, she stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. There is nothing wrong dear. Not one speck or grain or crack. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and uttered nothings about dinner being ready soon.
She is wrong, all wrong. She may not see it but I do. No one may see it but me. Yet it is there. The cracks remain in sight.