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The Poem
to her
it was half past irrelevant
hundreds of thousands of parsecs away
a quasar emits light and color in a revolution against darkness
defying the black mass of absence circling the pit of it's stomach
closer to home ascended ancestors supernova
forcing segregation by death within their own constellations
a perpetually changing horse hoofed trampled earth
replete with war, famine,
pestilence, and death
enveloped her
but her interpretation of how those few moments felt placed time in orbit around her chest an infinite loop as her panic peeked and compounded before facing that paint peeled cherry red door she hand painted when he didn't get around to doing so
she paused while her hand gripped the nickel coating on the handle
in a self contained emotional state
awareness would have flooded her chambers of recognition and she'd have realized the rain was at war with her skin
a violent onslaught of divots render then instantly dissolve their existence
the ammunition soaks into the threads of her fabric adding weight to the nominal clothes she quickly threw on before her temperamental egress out of that same door
just an hour prior
her forehead lured by a ravenous hunger
for the comfort the woodgrain provided against the crescendoing war drum echoing the halls in her head entices her to press skin to paint to internally visualize
all the impending scenarios she was to face
a few minutes pass and she builds up
enough confidence to cosplay strength and possibly walk in with her head propped upright on her shoulders
her hand turns clockwise
until the handle resists the momentum
then pushes and cautiously traipses through the portal between everything that was "not" and her home
she walks in with her loosely gauzed cotton candy perspective
bandaging the severed flesh of a terror that this end will never justify the means
the room mostly dark and lifeless
...emotionally uninhabitable
she herself powerless to forge a true fealty to the atmosphere
and for some reason the atmosphere to her
all around her
framed pictures of an optimistic relationship
thrown across sheetrock as if one hour photo and jackson pollock designed this monument with the feng shui of randomization
...when in truth they were merely hung crooked
all this contrasted by mental images of memories
they wouldn't dare capture out of fear of having proof
the words don’t quite swan dive off of the tongue but she does yell for him
her voice skips through the house grazing surfaces until seeping into the nooks and crannies of the quiet
the silence quickly fill her lungs and fester
she pivots to the singular source of illuminating tungsten nestled in the core of a faux antique lamp on an old wooden hand me down side table resting in the corner between the couch and the window
…and spotlit on that table
a carefully staged folded paper jittering from the nearby air vent indirectly casting it's frigid breath just under the side that can’t quite grasp stability like it's brethren
...the paper baths in the beams of it’s inanimate sun god surrounded by ascending dust
she first allows all the paralyzing thoughts to subside
...at least until she has feeling in her toes
shortly after
her heart starts with a slow walk
the beat is slave to an exponentially growing tempo
a gradient of deep passionate reds expand and contract to negate the bruising of a noir existence
and as she approaches the sole subject in her depth of field she begin to make out writing in what looks like blood
...but is most likely just red sharpie
this letter was now destined to claim land in her palms through one of the oldest rules in the book
...ownership by scribbled name
however, this particular script was a severely emotional variant to his usual handwriting and added that final tier of undefining panic she sits down on the end of the couch
...then grabs the note and opens it
...and it reads
—————————————————
THE HINDSIGHT
i wonder
what i should’ve done
for the things
that weren’t funny?
the things
that were beyond
what could be fixed
with mere money
i miss
being your “baby”
and you being my “bunny”
...that shit used to taste like
milk and honey
but there are
no answers i’d find
away from you
...wouldn’t bother
to even try
even if we’re like
oil and water
...i’ll just sink
so you can dry
but i promise
we’ll go back
and figure out
what went wrong
i have a feeling
we just didn’t say
what was wrong
for too long
-him
p.s. - if you feel the same way
turn the lamp light off
then back on
—————————————————
..it is a poem
she knows he loves poetry because
it’s how he textually conveys the dark side of his happy and over time became one of her tools to emotionally understand him
...and upon finishing,
a deep long inhale followed by an even longer exhale precedes her final decision
conflicted by the need for a warm body to hold and personally ensure her of love through the unbreakable tether of eye contact and the knowledge that he is just providing her the space he knows she needs to clearly think this moment through
she leans over and tugs the chain attached to the lamp
and then...
__
xTHExIDISx
© Erik Xydis
it was half past irrelevant
hundreds of thousands of parsecs away
a quasar emits light and color in a revolution against darkness
defying the black mass of absence circling the pit of it's stomach
closer to home ascended ancestors supernova
forcing segregation by death within their own constellations
a perpetually changing horse hoofed trampled earth
replete with war, famine,
pestilence, and death
enveloped her
but her interpretation of how those few moments felt placed time in orbit around her chest an infinite loop as her panic peeked and compounded before facing that paint peeled cherry red door she hand painted when he didn't get around to doing so
she paused while her hand gripped the nickel coating on the handle
in a self contained emotional state
awareness would have flooded her chambers of recognition and she'd have realized the rain was at war with her skin
a violent onslaught of divots render then instantly dissolve their existence
the ammunition soaks into the threads of her fabric adding weight to the nominal clothes she quickly threw on before her temperamental egress out of that same door
just an hour prior
her forehead lured by a ravenous hunger
for the comfort the woodgrain provided against the crescendoing war drum echoing the halls in her head entices her to press skin to paint to internally visualize
all the impending scenarios she was to face
a few minutes pass and she builds up
enough confidence to cosplay strength and possibly walk in with her head propped upright on her shoulders
her hand turns clockwise
until the handle resists the momentum
then pushes and cautiously traipses through the portal between everything that was "not" and her home
she walks in with her loosely gauzed cotton candy perspective
bandaging the severed flesh of a terror that this end will never justify the means
the room mostly dark and lifeless
...emotionally uninhabitable
she herself powerless to forge a true fealty to the atmosphere
and for some reason the atmosphere to her
all around her
framed pictures of an optimistic relationship
thrown across sheetrock as if one hour photo and jackson pollock designed this monument with the feng shui of randomization
...when in truth they were merely hung crooked
all this contrasted by mental images of memories
they wouldn't dare capture out of fear of having proof
the words don’t quite swan dive off of the tongue but she does yell for him
her voice skips through the house grazing surfaces until seeping into the nooks and crannies of the quiet
the silence quickly fill her lungs and fester
she pivots to the singular source of illuminating tungsten nestled in the core of a faux antique lamp on an old wooden hand me down side table resting in the corner between the couch and the window
…and spotlit on that table
a carefully staged folded paper jittering from the nearby air vent indirectly casting it's frigid breath just under the side that can’t quite grasp stability like it's brethren
...the paper baths in the beams of it’s inanimate sun god surrounded by ascending dust
she first allows all the paralyzing thoughts to subside
...at least until she has feeling in her toes
shortly after
her heart starts with a slow walk
the beat is slave to an exponentially growing tempo
a gradient of deep passionate reds expand and contract to negate the bruising of a noir existence
and as she approaches the sole subject in her depth of field she begin to make out writing in what looks like blood
...but is most likely just red sharpie
this letter was now destined to claim land in her palms through one of the oldest rules in the book
...ownership by scribbled name
however, this particular script was a severely emotional variant to his usual handwriting and added that final tier of undefining panic she sits down on the end of the couch
...then grabs the note and opens it
...and it reads
—————————————————
THE HINDSIGHT
i wonder
what i should’ve done
for the things
that weren’t funny?
the things
that were beyond
what could be fixed
with mere money
i miss
being your “baby”
and you being my “bunny”
...that shit used to taste like
milk and honey
but there are
no answers i’d find
away from you
...wouldn’t bother
to even try
even if we’re like
oil and water
...i’ll just sink
so you can dry
but i promise
we’ll go back
and figure out
what went wrong
i have a feeling
we just didn’t say
what was wrong
for too long
-him
p.s. - if you feel the same way
turn the lamp light off
then back on
—————————————————
..it is a poem
she knows he loves poetry because
it’s how he textually conveys the dark side of his happy and over time became one of her tools to emotionally understand him
...and upon finishing,
a deep long inhale followed by an even longer exhale precedes her final decision
conflicted by the need for a warm body to hold and personally ensure her of love through the unbreakable tether of eye contact and the knowledge that he is just providing her the space he knows she needs to clearly think this moment through
she leans over and tugs the chain attached to the lamp
and then...
__
xTHExIDISx
© Erik Xydis
