I lay upside down on the stairs
to see the ceiling
and to be nowhere that I could explain.

Blood is rushing to my head. And gravity is pulling me long. I don't have to stay here, I could fall. Yet I hum in my toes to keep me in my spot. The ceiling light has never been looked at in this angle. I am sure she does not appreciate my admiration of her unseen darkness. I am sure the carpet does not desire me to give it the experience of  shoulders, and calves. As if I am gracing him with more life than he was made for. I cannot explain how I got here. I was walking up to find a place to hide and stopped here. In plain sight. A sight seen that does not give any clue as to what I was thinking. Clearly purposeful. Clearly thought out. Clearly I had to put myself here, and keep myself here. An experiment with being somewhere I am not supposed to be with no danger but falling.

Oh let's write about her
 all I see are melting clothes
around us dripping off
and down
and trailing
into a pool of violet color.
Violet because it is her favorite color
and violet because it's soft
and violet because it purrs
and violet because it was all pleasure.

He says hello again. 

Let's try this. 

I speak, but think I'm dying.

He drives. I can't close my eyes

But want to. 

I smile, he thinks 

We walk, I grab his hand. 

In silence. Whispering what we're doing. 

What do you really think when I say nothing.

To things so important. So dripping with response. 

Please respond? Please reply? Please. 

I can not help but watch. You keeping score.

What's up? That's one. 

How're you. Two. 

I want to die. 

no. no response. 

You are keeping score.

No response. 

Are you okay
Are you alright
you'll be fine
you're over reacting
you're making a mess
I don't understand
what can I do
how can I help
where should we go
what should we eat

Good news, my heart
today we move.

Could it be that I've fucked away

wonder, 

and that I smoked away peace. 

drowned in awareness 

so now when I breath 

it's only death, and darkness, and surety

that claims me. 

It's only cleverness that breaks me. 

This is real. This is awful. This is it. 

 It could be that buried too deep inside 

the screaming had to be muffled by something worse. 

Worse than crying. Worse than hating. Worse than 

silence. nothing is. 

Reactive. 

 In a museum. Every picture, sculpture, screaming TOUCH ME. 

Smudge me. Break me. Feel me. 

Melting what might be a candle with no flames, heat. 

Where did this come from before? And where did it go for now. 

Why is everything so much harder. When nothing has changed.

There I can be loud and destructive. Here I am silent. Quiet. Confused with nothing. 

Just to melting. No flame.

Get me an empty journal for Christmas
There's nothing more that I want then to stare at more empty pages
more places where I should write all the thoughts I should have
Thoughts that I must have because I have nothing else
I do nothing else. I think only to exist. The only existence in empty silent
words.