Incandescent distractions level the question
again, “Does this really matter?” I will place
myself here, so you can keep track of me
but first I must tell you of nothings and I
will not hold your hand, you will not
find the floor. A voice has no body
that’s him; his pallor mirrored in dark
gradation, nearly absent and tiredly
focused on me. Not only him, but her -
myriad hers haphazardly placed, many of
both embodying the current THEM. The place
is large, as you can clearly see, there are
probably arches and maybe
a column or two (or four).
I am alone, facing this many, and again light
is the sole fixture I fasten to, annexing lumens
like some mad candle-powered moth.
The room is brighter
than me, conspicuously so, marginal shadows
outlining my withering profile in a penumbra
of commonness. A voice has no body, how then
have I fucked these neutral shades, how then
will I speak?
Stay with me and these nostalgias will pass.