From the plane
the lights spell buildings, their shapes, and roads. Their absence speaks of
woods and water, this still within the city. I know that lake, I know that
river, now a black line through this human night, described by our creations,
bulbs and wires. Heading west, the density of a neighborhood’s tale decreases,
but still it whispers of ponds in shades of dark; still I think about who lives
there, imagining beauty, or rather, remembering it.
I am carried further from my home, yet closer with each second to my return to it. I want that too but am trying not to count: When I wake, five nights remain. I start up days before: This is my third to last day at home; this is my second... I try to stop it. Be where you are.
There is nothing elegant about a rented bathroom. I used to think there was, but there isn’t. There is nothing tragic about soiled carpet when it is clear that one will soon leave it. The tragedy Is the daily task of scrubbing at it, having to, hating the job but needing it and you, leaving your change and singles around as if they are meaningless. They’re not.
This room is just the same as the ones beside above and below. Joy has happened right here, or right nearby. A story ended, that’s certain but you can’t know if it was a happy one or otherwise. You guess about this. The mind races to the point that you are convinced you are lying on someone else’s bed, and fear they might walk in. It was the best night’s sleep you ever had. That’s the sad truth.
This room is just the same as the ones beside it. What makes this one different is me, versus you or him. What makes this one different is what I take with me, things that aren’t replaced like towels and soap. She left a little note to say thank you.
She is already home.