Sunday 3/14/2010 12:20:00 AM

Limping ghosts use the open window as their crutch. I see. I don't. It's near. It's close. Nothing and everything. These blank spots in my skin. Following the scars. To the places I almost lived. The door is open. The house is empty. No one's home. The winter's over, but outside this window, the trees are still dead.

We're supposed to wake up, but we don't. Face in the glass pretends to know. Where we're going. Where we might be. Nowhere. No place. Healing bones and missing flesh throw their parties for the dead. Crutches walk on us. The words seep out. As she undresses. Auctioning her open windows for one more chance to see. What's out there. What's not. The void. The content. The faces. Stranded in the broken glass.

The window in my skin. A zipper coming undone. The world reflected. Shattering with it. As the stones hit. Little holes at first. Then big ones. Let the cold find us. Making it impossible to see. Beyond the pieces.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.