Your eyes are crossed. I never noticed until now.

I never took the time to sit with you and ask why you liked poppies, and whistles, and the smell of cinnamon. It's a nice smell, that.

I'm holding that little leather pouch you used to carry. I remember the first time I opened it. I was upset because someone had set fire to the lavender field, and I hadn't the chance to pick you any, so instead of bringing you flowers I went home and found this. Matchstick people you had made, and with such care. Each had their own expression, carefuly constructed and made different by the bend in their brow or smile.

You were always like that. Giving a different hint of life to everything. Each word from you could be seen dancing and bending its way to the listener's ear, hands fluttering to accompany, lilting with the air.

The sky has just started setting orange, you know. If I climb up on my roof I can just barely brush it with my fingers. Truth is, it burns, but it reminds me of you, so it's okay.

No, no, that sounds horrible. What I mean to say is it reminds me of your hands. I never needed a bandage or mittens with your hands around. I'd only need to ask and yours would engulf mine, absorb whatever was the matter. I don't mean to sound tragic, but without, mine just seem so small and strange. So sad.

I have to go now, but the lavender is coming back this spring, and I promise I'll bring you some. No one ever thinks to bring flowers in the spring, its too typical. Reverse psychology, really.

This whole thing, it is in theory, right?

I mean, what else besides a hypothetical situation would warrant such a question?
You're way out of bounds here. You don't have the passcode and I am not. You're a thief.

Try again next year.

I haven't a name,
nor a face,
nor a voice.

I cannot shield you from the cold
I cannot hearken to what you may or may not speak.
Idly: here, I am.

It is only time
and only hope
that could waste their patience knowing.

walk on, fair friend
walk past and far from here.

I mean only harm
and deal only in numbers.

Miss, take me and you'll carry me forever.
Shrew and me a merry heathen, damned.

Free form to fall away from,
that's what I've given you.

What have you to offer me?

Where I come from, they don't ask if you're okay.

They tear you out of your chair at dinnertime and drag you around to back and shoot you.

Huh, they don't even bother to clean up after themselves.

You'd think those damn Brits would know what a napkin was.

We are your limelight, we are your children, and we are your harshest critics.

but we are not your playthings.

Draw in those tassels with which we could pull the layer of oil from your voice. Do, dear. They're only a hazard to you now. You're not fooling us anymore. Endearing though you once were, it was a mistake to show us everything.

You never tell someone everything.

Pray though, do tell what you were planning. Before we wrecked our ship, that is. Ah, refrain. It is only we who serve you with our words sublime. 'Tis and endless cesspool that we indeed create, from which you pull your inspiration. It is only us for you who bite the finishing thread in the tapestry. Forgive us, we'd forgotten. How quick you were to remind us of this one way street. Oh that was a marvelous crash.


You'd do well to remember we can scratch to scar but choose instead to wipe your eyes. We know your hands are too callused to do such intricate work. See still how we remain? You have kicked and beaten us in turn but stationary we sit. The only difference is in our eyes.

One may find a sharper vision is upon their person after watching you for so long. They will eventually become yours when your own have dried out. That'll be the third pair...such carelessness.

Perhaps that was intended? Your aim, love? That we think you such a scoundrel that we should leave you here to rot, alone?

After all, it is alone the best you breathe out your fire onto all things. It's where we are created. The most splendid tendrils of a grin rise up from your mouth with each fistful of a world you have made. It's in a mountain of ash you find yourself the next morning. Still they love you.

It is now that you have left us with our eyes, such an opportune time, and with all the knowing that none have possessed before us. It is the very same steel in our backs that has allowed us this knowing that burdens and bars us from spreading it to every corner of this planet.

But do you think that means we ourselves will ever again risk missing the show?

I would die for every last one of you standing...and sitting, before me.

No, of course it's not because I think you'd do the same for me, that's awful.

How selfish.

You honestly think I would ask you to save me? Me, when the cost is at the expense of your own dears that need protecting? There's not a single soul here ready to give that up.

I can tell from your eyes.

But see, I don't have to worry. I can afford to die in each of your places. I only have you guys to lose.

And I needn't think of what would happen to you if I were to go away. You would take care of each other, break and heal as one.

So when the time comes that you should truly need me, I'll be more than willing.

But until then, humor me and piss off.

The string holding the curtains together has no sense of the tautness it once knew.
It's frayed and rather slack now. The neighborhood children like to peep in.
There's nothing a much interest in here, but still they linger. I think they see the gray clinging to everything and wonder where it came from.

Yet, it's in uncertainty that I see their faces form the surest of creases. They know what they saw.

An electric current runs through this building and arches its spine. The air it breathes shimmers and it's mouth rips apart to utter what it has seen.

When they grow to meet my age and shake its hand, they'll remember.

But not now. No. Now they will wake amidst clean cotton and shake the sleep from their heads. They will rise when they day bids they do so, and they will go, and they will-