Needle and Thread

The weather interrupts the rain that's always falling. Why offer me darkness when I cannot sleep. Why let the sun shine when I cannot see.

Closer now, she says we are weak enough to understand. What we have to give. What can be given us. The outline. The thick black. Waits for a color. An interruption. To distract from its uselessness.

The weather pushes its feces nearer to my bed. I slither through the shit. Just to find a mania worth indulging. The world is small. I can see it all from my little stare. The world is gigantic. A man. A mountain. A boulder. Always pushing.

But the window. The window is what they want. Panes of glass like beads of sweat. Curling down guilty necks. The infection swelling beneath the skin. Broken puppets. Falling down on an empty stage. The audience only interrupting your humiliation.

It rains. Of course it does. But now no one sees the flood. The sun shines sometimes. Of course it will. But no one is grateful.

Life happens. The weather interrupts. And we wait for the lights to come back on.

We cast our threads. Hoping the needles will remember.