today is friday, tomorrow will be sunday night

we are a mismatched set, you and I,
two heads bent together to form an empty vase. 
I am the imbecile who twists herself 
into a knot, and fills two seats.
She could fill none at all, he notes.
time has no meaning in this rush, though
it is the only thing you say matters. 
your eloquence is plastic, I say, 
and you wheel out a monotone of syllables 
that cancel themselves out, until we are both
black specks on a crowded canvas. 
He paints. The canvas is
a different sort of empty.

(title of this post  title of the poem. special characters panel = <3.)


sympathy for the devil said...

i am listening.
and i love your writing.


Erin said...

this resonates.

Edge said...

Love it. :)

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)