I couldn't look at your hands,
or in your eyes,
or through the frost covering the window.
I could only think about the dark,
where I am most at home
where I get by just fine, alone.
You say things, they brush past
and tumble onto the floor,
beneath our chairs,
into the corners of the room.
I hear them clickity-clack against the floor,
that hollow, aluminium sound.
I hear them, rhythmic,
but I do not know what you're talking about
and I don't think that I want to.
There were times, not long ago,
where I would have collected these words
and held them tightly to my chest.
I would bathe in opinion and sink into you like syrup.
I could have spit honey and dissolved teeth,
making decisions with lips first.
Machines get damaged by stickiness.
They rust and they whirr and they revolt with friction.
Gears speak too, they demand lubrication.
They reject each sugar-coated words, they attract bugs.
Patience is short but my memory's shorter -
it lathered itself in promises.
No manufactured dreamscapes here,
only planned obsolenscence.