The soberness is welcome, this non-intoxicated mentality on this weekday night, with the haze of my burnt steak twirling around the walls and lampshade.
My apartment is losing me, and I it, three weeks away from a new life and my couch wonders why I am leaving, my shower drips like it is crying for me to stay, and the bed that was my friend has decided to warm itself, like it is her again with the waking warmth of a Sunday morning.
The creaks are not so loud. Were they ever?
The carpet is clean for my tingling toes.
Memories of five years seeping in the air, unburnt, maybe partly, depending on my mood, but pleasant tonight, a whiff of spring meadow and summer sunshine mixed with lavender from the candle I purchased at the store; like burning smells will ignite my curiosity and paint this apartment new…but I know it won’t, it is not that easy, and the flame knows this, the way it dances itself around like a dream dissipating with yawning eyes.
Wondering about the photos in the cupboard, and if they will keep, or if they will find more solace in the dumpster.
Wiping my dinner plate in the sink, a symbolic moment. If my life was porcelain I would wash it, too.
So here is my book I hold in the light, and here are my pajama bottoms warmed by the heater, and here is the goodnight touch on my keyboard bright, the only way I know to end a night swimming in the collective uncertainty and polished pieces of a man, a young man, or so they say, with the world cornering him into a blissfully confused demeanor.