The rim's of the torn up cardboard boxes filling the corners of this otherwise empty house
Are sagging downward due to the dampness of the air

What's inside? Should we check?
Honestly it's probably just more rusted blades and frayed rope
The effort to open these moistened boxes would out way the objective
So I'd rather not pay mind to them

Whether or not we're aware
Our consciousness will drift to the humidity of the atmosphere
A breath of the heavy air may cause mold to form in our lungs
Thoughts start to stutter and stumble around the "what's?" and "why's?"
Pondering whether the wind caused the boxes to wetten, or if the outward state of the damaged units made the air teary-eyed

Laying down, back against the cement floor
The residual chill still in my core, but otherwise body heat warmed the floor underneath me
Since the ceiling is a mirror, I lay listless with my eyes closed
Maybe if we wait long enough the boxes exteriors will corrode to nothing, then we won't have to open them.
Blissful ideals flutter under my eyelids


© Marah Schneider