sightless eyes

but not silent,

can the unseeing

see all the passers by?

vacancy inside

empty rooms and deep in memory

memories that are empty too

echoes, nonexistent,

fill all of the rank, motionless space

can they be heard from the street

is there even

an outside?

the windows sit, so quiet

darkness

it covers everything inside,

speechless but breathing,

grave sighs,

but do ghosts exist when there's no one to see them?

the corners bleed...

the stairs, the walls

no light left now to illuminate

no human voices,

no warmth to make whole

the cars pass it by, life moving past the past

and

it sits, unto itself

black hole doors and broken pillars.

when i was younger,

a child,

i wanted to be a nun -

prayers, books and solace

no worries of boys or family

an outside world, taken away

willingly and so simply

there would be plain clothes, and a marriage

to a deity! - though nonexistent

then

when i was a little older, but young still

i wanted to be an embalmer -

chemicals, textbooks and silence

shielded, hiding from the world outside

a bubble where there's only me and a shell, like me

no time for friends or to MAKE a family

the money, the learning!

helping people from off stage,

death is always so sentimental

i think i just wanted to be alone, left to my reading

i think that to be true still, always -

secluded almost from even myself

it's funny, now....

i became neither of these things, none

and here

i sit.

I'm living without you now,

I don't watch your car pull into the usual spot

anymore

no more evening wine,

no more sitting close on every couch,

there's one less person to love my cooking,

and i feel your absence, of words,

I feel the absence

of our walmart conversations

and all our pictures by the pool

we won't have another winter together,

with you coming over despite the snow

your coat won't be draped across your chair

no longer will we warm each other from the cold

I'm fairly certain I think of you

most of the day,

most days

who do you talk to in the mornings now?

who worries after you and your unguarded razorblades?

I wonder, sometimes,

who is now putting themselves aside for you,

I sit and think of

who now abides your misery.

I'm living still,

all the time and every day,

I don't have your agony integrating me now

but

some days I can still feel

our thoughts touch from all the way

across town.

What does it matter,

what we write?

Just by people, for other people...

Humans are the worst -

we undoubtedly do not deserve

cosmos

moonlight

the sea in the sunshine

evergreen trees on mountains, or

a clear stream bubbling, everlong

We litter things

with grocery stores,

taco stands and hate

our breath poisons the air,

the water is too little and naturalism,

scarce.

There are always pages -

in our minds,

books and knowledge everywhere,

libraries of facts and seas made completely of words

we deserve

exactly

none

of

it,

not even on our best day.