hard to heart

I’ve barely skimmed the surface. I hardly made a dent. The crossroads of all my philosophies, the fruit of my labors. Nothing in the larder, pockets always roomy. Measured at a spider’s pace, the curtains closed up tight. A life of picking poses for my corpse.

Not stars, not rain, not the sliced apple moon. Walls worn down by silence and shadows. Walls that hold their breath. A house, room by room.

We’re the ones that get found by the neighbor. We’re the ones that get eaten by the cat. These long haunts of the socially awkward and abhorrent. The dull epilogues of the walk-ons and write-offs, the unlovables and the hard to heart. Gone, and going on and on.