by mickharris

why is there weariness in being alone

why are there old creaky joints

striated muscle

shivering spotty fingers

curling nails

eyes filmed and yellowing in their irises

 

the crone grasps

 

houses on stilts

chicken eggs sucked at night

pots full of dark liquids

silence

cold air rippling under moons

ripe and full of reflected glory

 

i have a balcony on which i can do this

stare up at the moon

but it’s on a parking lot

i live in an apartment

i have a cat

i have ikea furniture

 

and soon i will be solitary

this seems impossible

to make magic here.

 

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