volumes of time spent debating the merits of monogamy while single and celibate and alone

another morning in
the brief home,
the borrowed body
seated at a
wooden table.
a seat cushion
on a wooden chair,
upholstered in the color
of cream.
it inspires a shuffling
dread, this thin cushion,
its surface given to
an easy staining.
this chair is not mine
to stain; this body
is mine to bruise,
so i bruise it
in the slow bloom
of pale morning light.
window panes weep
from the inside,
their collection of
nocturnal exaltations
displayed in jeweled
beading.
the house blood hums
in its duties of
refrigeration and heating.
the morning sky clears
its thick throat. jeweled
window panes cannot
sparkle in the phlegm of this
bruised light. another morning
in this borrowed body,
in this brief home.
a wooden table and
a cream colored cushion
and the relentless mutter
of dread.

if the hope is to find 
beauty within 
this bruising, 
i seem to have
missed the mark.
perhaps this is
the effort of 
hopelessness;
a relief
from obligation 
to find anything 
other than what 
we are. 
the cells within 
me, of me,
are dying at
every moment. 
perhaps this is why
i always feel the quiet
howl of grief. 

wooden chair.
pale
off
white
cream
seat cushion,
as-yet unstained.
every dying cell in this
borrowed body,

triumphant. 

Edvard Munch. 1892. “Kiss by the Window”

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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