the water on the window

the cat wants to run out into the rain. I close the window and tell her there's nothing good out there, evidence dripping from my every end into the carpet. of course she doesn't understand and I can do nothing to make her. she stalks across the keyboard, sulking louder than the kettle. if I ignore her long enough she'll give up and I can listen to the water on the window. I do and she does, taking vigil on my pillow as I relish what I can through the glass. for a moment there is no more running. I sit and breathe without thought or expectation. some kind of stillness between demons and receipts, strong enough to keep them waiting in the hall. words rear like ghosts to spoil the present all too quick. I forget where I was until I lose myself again.

cabin crew smile

the safety instructions sound more deflated than usual, as though they too aren’t so certain anymore. cabin crew smile louder to compensate, though the passengers still won’t want to lift their window shades. the baby in the row behind plays with my hair over the headrest. her mother says it looks like her father’s. she laughs at my face and cries on our descent into the city.

black friday sales

the children want to reach the moon. growing up is knowing it’s too far, like life beyond the ego or the grave. the children want to change the world. we watch the news and wait for something good that never comes. neglecting dreams for what? I check the time and settle for black friday sales.

growing out

when I come home I forget every other place I’ve been. some kind of amnesia or just another excuse for the ongoing decline I watch from the passenger seat. not even the faintest murmurs of growth are retained, every hint of newness discarded like sins with shoes at the door.

the clothes I wear all feel too loose and I’m left no choice but to sulk for respite from the bedroom. I built my problems here out of little more than idle time and privilege. letting loneliness and boredom play til they’re holding the cards and telling me which ones to burn. I say less than I should and take the good for granted. listening to other people talk and reading what they write. I hide from the news and myself like a child. what am I if not the ungrateful son of worried parents?

my toes press against the board at the end of the bed. I think about growing out of what I know and a lot of things I wish I’d done. a bug taps on the glass to the tick of a clock I can’t see. I open the curtain and ask the window to wake me with the sun.

every boulder

and the laundry never ends: another breath for every boulder waiting at the door. I’d leave if the window would let me and open. what good is a hill I can’t die on?

monetised

the pink clouds pass like dreams. mine for a moment, gone quicker than the midnight tram. I'd pay to keep them but I can't. if only memory could be monetised. who needs clouds anyway?

where have all the flowers gone?

but the bees keep coming back. I want to ask them why. all drains lead to the ocean. trains terminate and every theatre empties. what are we future proofing for? the flowers only grow to wilt. when will we ever learn?