The water broke in past the walls,
And smashed onto the table tops, drowning flowers and shattering vases,
And as your eyes hid behind your parted fingers, curling into the corners of your couch,
Fetal and grey, lonely with static sounds in your flooded ear.
The matchboxes descended from atop the fridge,
And the calendars hanging on the adjacent wall crinkled within the moment,
Slowly, magically, vanishing into the airy fizzes that came off an empty bottle of milk that opened in fair mistake.
Soon, you awakened to dry land, furniture parched of smiles,
And bed sheets wryly writhing in unmade ways.
You don’t say anything.
Headed a street, vacancy occupying the conversations,
Memories still flowering in a brain gunning against runny desires.
All dreams are delivered to you in your sleep,
And you don’t say anything, because you’re still impartial of time to come.
Hoping to come off the boundaries, and whispering to disillusioned park benches,
That hope flakes on your skin, frailly dances across each synapse,
Binding each conclusion in measurements of consequences,
And setting you apart, sailing you across,
to happy, and softly lit lands of film festivals,
and clocks, and chocolates,
Between minutes of life and love and death.