While writing for you last month
I cremated my self on to several empty
sheets of paper. This week I hung them from
a wire in the backyard and they floated as if
they were cheap paper cups, I had always drunk my
whiskey in. I hit them with fingers very
gently and the sky was an ash
grey canopy the entire week is what took me to realize
you have confiscated my senses and
the key to a perfect metaphor.
Stairs, of wood, each, one hundred and fourteen
years old became silent in time once you, stepped
in. It was as if you owned the very place.