emptiness that uses those closest to you as building blocks; fog
rolling in, inside you, like gentrification and renovating your home;
the present moment as a viewing, for you have already "cleaned
house" to present yourself; an empty you as the most attractive you

you as historic, only as a skeleton, for you have stood over but
cannot be understood; walls that don't have color, walls that don't
exist until painted by, say, a penumbra of white lies or "no vacancy"
blues; a full house, a houseful of memories spooned, like greens,
into an unwilling child's mouth; flotsam and jetsam blue-blacks

floating, like black eyes, in the silence that follows conversation;
walls that run into you in the daytime, disappearing at night;
isolation shapes, falling like a tetris of delete keys: dropping Ls
and squares and snakes left and right, T'ing up I's at your Q levels

when you come with more question marks, than a Riddler cosplay;
cosplay a conversation, yourself on the other side of your self:
walls that self-articulate, like a spider's web, from the subconscious;
a sense of frustration, when you can longer find a way to be you.

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blupillneo

March 2019

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