Corners

One might say this is the sequel to my poem This Time Fading

We have been here before, with you on the other side of the room, our noses pushed against the corners, the boniest, dirtiest of hands over our eyes

We have tasted this air that dries our tongues until they are but barren muscles within our sculls, with jaws dropped to our collar bones waiting for words to surface

This air is a sour fog that rattles our bones, and the noise skims from floor to wall just to stop the incessant silence that clogs our ears

We have lost time before, night and day have flashed around us like strobe lights, and it slows only when I turn from this corner to lower the hands from my lids

But now I am bent in half and balled in the corner, and my nails are dried with blood on the walls, and I have managed to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth

Like a wounded dog I force out a cry, curled on the splintered floor, with a crooked spine visible through my empty belly, and this is what I will die with

As my cry bounds from every wall while the days flicker on, it will go on shredding the silence as you stand with your shaky hands and dry tongue, in an unbroken stance, pressed tightly away from the mound of bones and skin you once, when you had more than just apathy in your blood, considered someone worth the effort of loving.

Reviews

[Adrian K. Smith]

The realism of the physical description is quite well done. My tongue is dry, and I find myself wondering about death as the opposite of love. Well done.