the house looks differently today, unlike the way it was on an infinite number of occasions both more memorable and beautiful than this current state of being. it's stray light running; a carpet of particles, recollections and memoirs, each removing my skin and affection from their past. i look away, unable to sense that i'm no longer wanted by these walls. i covet their ability to face the one they hate, so stoically white and expressionless. these floorboards never moved for me, the swaying of trees that felt the shadows on my wall are now too dark to sense at night. too many things have lost their place, too many days are numbered. i'm leaving through the window, forgetting this old view.
Comments
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i love the part about the walls being stoically white
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brilliant, as usual.
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i've been reading a number of poets who write in this form (non-form) and it's growing on me... the title drew me in, it's just wonderful and the piece is extremely nice as well. great work...
al
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