Dust comes from our skin, and the yellowed dishes in the sink are dead and never coming back. We have to leave and there’s nowhere to be. Separately, we mumble to the floorboard next to the mattress. No words, just pieces of words. The ones that slip out between eyes and eyelids. The floor can cave any minute, and that’s just how it goes.
In October, we, separately, walked through the ditch by the railroad tracks and the abandoned gas station. The childlike graffiti under the overpass shows how you, separately, cannot stop changing. But will not grow.
The empty bus floats us, separately, back across town, back to the poorly drawn house where we gulp the stale air, sprawled like stains.
And like a ship it drags over you, scoring your body, a fish under the dock, swimming in place.
Infinite lull.
Anchored to the basement by the issues you allow to eat. Blending into the beige walls. This is it. Every day, we, separately, sit on the rug next to the dead flies. This time we follow them, heaving, together.