(Henri-Pierre Picou)
Work comes to a gray end, retired to recline on the shell that is the bed; pillow on top of pillow, a whole earth pushing my head up from underneath, matching its weight perfectly. There is much on my mind, too much to write. I understand more as I grow older, but that understanding matters less. Who might have guessed that time renders understanding less actionable. Who.
The twisting of the insides increases. Love withers when starved, its limbs brittle or broken. The heart an eternal mess, cluttered with so much silliness, if lucky. It has no greater capacity to care for itself than I do. Re-opening wounds does little for the surface of the skin.
Wishes that I had more understanding when it might have mattered, but ah well, as they say, nothing really does. Some things I guess, just not the things for me, ol' boho.
Broken people don't do very well at fixing broken things. They tend to ignore the things shattered for things still shatterable. Sounds of glass breaking settle, when misshapen hands then struggle to collect the shards in the dark, arranging them in some intended order on ill-fitting palms, as if, only to be dropped again and again upon against, until the useless slamming has ceased.
For what use, nobody knows; nothing matters, really, to me.
For what use, nobody knows; nothing matters, really, to me.
.
