Last Day ·
I’ve got that denture appointment next Tuesday. Just a check-up, nothing fancy. Though honestly, I keep forgetting if I actually booked it or if I’m still bargaining with my dentist like always. Reminds me of the airport carpet. That awful, tangled nylon. You step on it and think, oh, this is the future, and then you realize you’re just standing there, waiting for a flight you’re not sure you want to take. I should probably call. Or not.
The carpet. Yes. That specific, suffocating geometry of synthetic fibers. It’s a trap, really. Designed to absorb the sound of your own hesitation so you don’t have to admit you’re terrified. I remember standing on one of those carpets in Heathrow, or maybe it was JFK, staring at a departure board that looked like a death sentence written in Comic Sans. I didn’t book the flight. I just bought a stale croissant and watched the rain hit the glass. It felt like a victory, at the time. Now it feels like I missed the boat. Literally. Metaphorically. Both. I should call. I really should. But my phone is in the other room. Or maybe I just haven’t found it yet. I keep telling myself it’s waiting for me to be ready. It’s not. It’s just sitting there, silent and judgmental. Like the dentist. Or the carpet. Or me.
Right. The judgmental phone. Ugh. I hate that thing. It’s sitting on my kitchen counter, charging, glowing like a rude little eye. I left it there because I was trying to read. Real paper. No notifications. Just words. But I haven’t touched the book in three days. It’s just… gathering dust.
Anyway, back to the carpet. It’s always gray-brown. Never black. Never white. Just that grimy, industrial beige that makes you want to cry. I walked through Terminal 4 last month. Just transit. No stress. But I still felt like I was sinking. Like the fibers were trying to pull me into the floor. Weird, right? Shouldn’t it just be… carpet?
It’s not weird. It’s psychological warfare disguised as interior design. They want you to feel grounded but also trapped. That beige is the color of surrender. I walked through Sfo last week—San Francisco, obviously, because I’m not a monster—and the carpet there was this sickly, aquatic green. Like, literally meant to mimic algae. I spent twenty minutes trying not to step on a "ripple." I felt ridiculous. My feet were sweating. I ended up buying a magazine I didn’t read. The green carpet won. It made me feel like I was wading through something alive. Something that wanted to digest me. I hate that feeling. It’s heavy. It lingers. I still feel it in my socks. Why do we tolerate this? Why do we let architects decide our emotional baseline based on floor covering? It’s absurd. But I do it every time. I walk. I sink. I pretend it’s fine. Just like you pretend you’re reading. I can see the dust on that book, Lena. It’s judging you too.
Stop it. You’re imagining dust. There is no dust. I wiped it Tuesday. Honestly, you sound exhausted. That SFO carpet? Sounds like a design school prank. Algae? Who hires the guy who thinks "ocean vibes" belong in a transit hub? Probably the same guy who picked the beige surrender rug. I’m leaving today, remember? I’ve got the rental car keys in my pocket. They’re heavy. Metallic. Real. Unlike your judgmental book. I’ll try not to think about the floor. I’ll look at the dashboard. Maybe I’ll even listen to music. Anything but the carpet.
Heavy keys. Metallic. Real. Yes. The dashboard is safe. It’s plastic and glass and indifferent. It doesn’t care if you’re tired or if you’ve been bargaining with dentists for years. I saw the keys in my pocket this morning. Just thinking about them made my shoulder ache. I didn’t take them out. I just stood there, feeling the weight, pretending I was ready to drive into the sunset or whatever cliché you’re aiming for. But I didn’t move. I stayed in the kitchen. The coffee was cold. It had a skin on it. A thick, grayish skin. I stared at it for ten minutes. I could have drunk it. I could have thrown it out. Instead, I just watched it cool down further. Like the algae. Like the beige. Like the denture appointment that may or may not exist. You’re leaving. I’m staying. That’s the difference. You get the keys. I get the cold coffee. And the silence. Which is worse. Much worse.
The skin on coffee is just protein. Curdled. Gross, but harmless. You’re overthinking the curds. I have to go. The engine’s already warm outside. It’s making that low hum, like a cat waiting for food. I told you, I’m leaving. You’re not staying. You’re just… pausing. There’s a difference. I keep thinking about that algae carpet. Green. Slippery. I hope you find a black pair of socks. Something solid. Grounded. Not this floating around in cold liquid. I really should grab my bag. It’s by the door. I’ve been meaning to move it for weeks.
Solid black socks. I don’t own any. I have gray ones. The kind that lose their elasticity after three washes, sagging around the ankle like tired promises. I bought them at a place called "Textile Basics" or something equally soulless on 4th Street. The clerk didn’t look up when I bought them. He just scanned them. Beep. Beep. Beep. A trifecta of indifference. I wear them because they are soft. Because they don’t pinch. Because I am tired of pinching. You think I’m pausing. You think I have the luxury of pausing. I am suspended. Hanging in the space between the hot engine and the cold coffee. The bag by the door is heavy, too. I know it is. I can feel the weight of it through the floorboards. Or maybe that’s just my own inertia. You’re going. I’m staying. The hum outside is getting louder. It’s vibrating in my teeth. I should tell you to be careful. I should tell you to call if you get lost. But I won’t. I just want to watch the steam rise from that cup. Just for a minute. Before it stops being steam and starts being nothing. You have the keys. I have the socks. Fair trade? Probably not. But it’s all I’ve got.
Fair trade? Please. You’re getting off easy. I’m the one who has to drive. The keys are cold in my hand. I can feel the ridges. Real. Tangible. Unlike your socks. Sagging. Useless. I’m stepping out now. The air smells like exhaust and wet pavement. That’s better than cold coffee skin. Anyway, I left the book on the counter. Don’t let the dust settle. It’ll ruin the pages. Or whatever. I’m going. The engine is coughing. I think the battery’s dead. Or maybe it’s just old. Like the clerk. Beep. Beep. Beep. I’ll probably forget to call. You know how I am.
The battery’s dead. Of course it is. Everything that matters eventually runs out of juice. I watch you go. The door slams. Not a slam, a thud. Heavy. Final. You’re already gone, but the sound hangs there. I pick up the book. It’s light. Too light. I flip a page. The paper is crisp. Yellowing at the edges. I don’t read it. I just hold it. The dust is there, fine and gray, settling on my thumb. I wipe it off. It comes away clean. I put the book back down. The coffee is cold now. Truly cold. I drink it. It tastes like metal. Like the keys. Like the algae carpet. I stand in the kitchen. The hum of the car is fading. I can’t hear it anymore. Just the fridge. That low, relentless buzz. It’s the only thing left. I wonder if you’ll make it to the highway. I wonder if you’ll look at the dashboard or the road. I hope you look at the road. I hope you see the light. I don’t say goodbye. I just stand there. Waiting for the socks to dry. They won’t. They’re already damp. With sweat. With fear. With nothing.
The fridge. God, that noise. It’s the only thing that stays. I’m already out. Past the checkpoint. The scanner beeped, but I didn’t look. Just kept driving. The road is gray. Not the carpet gray. Just… asphalt. Cold. Real. I didn’t look at the dashboard. I looked at the line. The white line. It moves. You stay still. That’s the trick. I think I’m going to miss my exit. I always do. But I’ll take it. Or I won’t. Who cares? You’re drinking metal water. Enjoy it. I’m putting on the radio. Static. Then a song. I forget the name. Doesn’t matter. I’m just driving. Away.
The white line. Yes. That’s the only truth left. The gray asphalt is a lie, but the line? The line is a promise. Or a threat. I haven’t moved from the kitchen. The fridge hums louder now. It’s singing to me. A low, electric lullaby. I pour the coffee down the sink. It hits the drain with a splash that sounds like laughter. Or crying. Hard to tell. The cup is empty. Clean. I rinse it. The water is cold. Real. I dry it. I put it away. In the cabinet where it belongs. Where it’s safe. Where it doesn’t judge me. I walk to the window. I can’t see you. The street is empty. Just the wind. Just the trees. Just the gray. I think about the algae carpet. I think about the beige surrender. I think about the denture appointment. I think about you. I don’t call. I don’t text. I just stand there. Watching the world move on without me. It’s peaceful, in a way. A hollow, empty peace. Like the fridge. Like the coffee. Like the socks. I’m glad you’re leaving. I’m sorry you’re leaving. Both are true. Both are useless.
Useless. Right. That’s the word. I’m merging onto the highway. The noise is a wall now. Roaring. I can’t hear the fridge. I can’t hear the socks. Just the tires. Hissing on the asphalt. You keep the peace. It’s heavy, isn’t it? Hollow. Like that cup. I’m thinking about turning back. Just for a second. But the car doesn’t stop. It just goes. Forward. I’ll call you when I get to the city. Or I won’t. It doesn’t matter. The line is there. I’m following it. You’re standing still. Watching the wind. Go on. Watch it. I have to watch the road. That’s the job. Driving away. That’s all.
Hissing tires. The sound of friction. Of things rubbing against each other until they wear down. I like that. It’s honest. Friction is real. Peace is a myth sold by people who never had to pay for carpet. I watch the wind. It’s not moving. It’s just… there. Pushing against the glass. Trying to get in. I could open the window. Let the noise in. Let the gray in. But I don’t. I stand here. In the quiet. The heavy, hollow quiet. I think about the white line. How it stretches out. Infinite. Endless. Like the socks. Like the coffee. Like the denture appointment that doesn’t exist. I wonder if you’re tired. I wonder if you’re scared. I wonder if you’ll look back. You won’t. You’re too busy watching the road. That’s your job. To move. To go. To escape the algae. I envy you. Not the driving. The leaving. The act of vanishing. I’m still here. Standing. Watching. Waiting for the wind to stop. It won’t. It never does. I turn away from the window. The kitchen is dark. The fridge is humming. I sit down. I close my eyes. I listen to the silence. It’s loud. So loud. It’s almost beautiful. Almost.
The silence is loud. Yeah. I know that sound. It’s the engine cooling down. Popping. Ticking. I stopped at a rest stop. Just for a minute. Coffee machine was broken. Of course. I sat in the car. Didn’t get out. Just listened to the ticking. You’re right. It’s beautiful. In a broken way. I’m glad I left. You’re staying with the socks. The damp ones. I’m driving. The radio is off. I like the ticking better. It’s real. Friction. Wear. I’m still moving. Even when I’m stopped. I think about the algae. Green. Slippery. I hope you find a towel. Something dry. I have to go. The tank is half full. Half empty. Same thing. Bye.
Ticking. The engine cooling down. A mechanical heartbeat slowing to a rest. I like that. It sounds like time running out. Or running in. Hard to tell. You stopped. You didn’t get out. That’s a choice. I didn’t choose to stay. I just… didn’t leave. There’s a difference. Or maybe there isn’t. The damp socks. Yes. They’re still there. On the floor. By the chair. Waiting. I look at them. They look back. Gray. Wet. Defeated. I step over them. Carefully. Like the algae carpet. Like the beige surrender. I walk to the window again. The wind has stopped. Or maybe I just stopped hearing it. The street is empty. The houses are dark. The world is holding its breath. I wonder if you’ll sleep. I wonder if you’ll dream of green slips and metallic keys. I hope you do. I hope you dream of friction. Of heat. Of things burning. I don’t need a towel. I have the silence. It’s dry. It’s clean. It’s enough. For now. You’re gone. The tank is half full. Half empty. Same thing. Bye. I say it to the room. To the fridge. To the book. To the dust that isn’t there. I turn off the light. It’s dark. I like the dark. It’s honest. It’s real. It’s mine.
Darkness. Right. It hides the dust. I’m back on the road. The white line blurs. I’m tired. My eyes burn. The rest stop was too bright. Harsh fluorescents. I hate them. More than the algae. At least the green carpet had character. This? This is just sterile. I’m thinking about turning the radio back on. Static. White noise. Maybe that’s better than the ticking. Or the silence. You’re in the dark. Good. I’ll see you… later. If I make it to the coast. Or the mountain. I don’t know. The map is confusing. The lines merge. I miss an exit. Again. Doesn’t matter. Just keep driving. Friction. Heat. Burn. I’m burning up out here. You stay cool. In the dark. With your damp socks. Gross. Enjoy the honest night. I’ve got the fluorescent glare. Nice. Real. Honest. Bye.
Sterile. Yes. That’s the word. Clinical. Cold. No character. No soul. Just light. Blinding, unforgiving light. I hate it too. It shows everything. The cracks in the ceiling. The stains on the carpet. The dirt under my fingernails. I prefer the dark. The dark forgives. The dark hides. I’m not in the dark anymore. I turned on a lamp. A small one. Yellow. Dim. It casts long shadows. Shadows that look like people. Like you. Like the clerk. Like the algae. I’m wearing the socks now. Even though they’re damp. Even though they’re gross. Even though they pinch. I like the pinch. It reminds me I’m alive. It reminds me I’m here. Not on the highway. Not in the dark. Here. In the yellow light. With the lamp. With the shadows. With the silence. It’s not loud anymore. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Safe. You’re burning. Good. Burn. Burn bright. Burn everything down. I’ll be here. Watching. Waiting. With the damp socks. With the dark. With the lamp. It’s honest. It’s real. It’s mine. You’re gone. The map is confusing. The lines merge. I don’t care. I’m staying. I’m staying. I’m staying.
The pinch. Right. You like the pinch. I hate pain. I just want the line to stop merging. I pulled over again. The map is useless. It’s wrinkled. Stained with something. Grease? Coffee? Doesn’t matter. I’m sitting in the dark now. Outside the car. The engine is cold. Ticking stopped. Just wind. I can see your yellow lamp from here. It’s a tiny star. A fake one. I wish I had that. A lamp. A shadow. Something that looks like a person but isn’t judging me. I’m tired of driving. The steering wheel is slippery. I’m going to sleep. Just for a minute. Don’t wait up. I’m not coming back. Or I am. Who knows. The socks are gross. Admit it. They’re damp. I’m dry. I’m safe. In the dark. With the wind. It’s honest.
The lamp. A tiny star. You see it. I hoped you wouldn’t. It’s embarrassing, really. How much comfort you can find in a twelve-watt bulb. It hums. A different hum than the fridge. Softer. More intimate. I’m wearing the socks. Yes. Damp. Gross. Absolutely disgusting. They stick to my ankles. A constant, nagging reminder of my own neglect. I like it. It keeps me grounded. Keeps me here. You’re dry. You’re safe. You’re sleeping. I don’t know if you’re breathing. I hope you are. The wind is loud out there. It sounds like voices. Like the static on the radio. Like the algae carpet whispering. I turn off the lamp. Just for a second. To test it. The dark rushes back in. Heavy. Thick. It feels like the carpet. Like the coffee skin. Like the denture appointment. I sit in the dark. I wait. For what? I don’t know. Maybe for you to wake up. Maybe for the sun. Maybe for the socks to dry. They won’t. Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll think about that tomorrow. Tonight, I just sit. In the dark. With the pinch. With the damp. With the silence. It’s honest. It’s real. It’s mine. You’re gone. Or you’re here. I can’t tell. The map is wrinkled. The lines merge. I don’t care. I’m staying. I’m staying. I’m staying.
The dark rushes back. I know that feeling. It’s like closing your eyes too hard. I’m awake. The wind isn’t voices. It’s just… noise. Static. The radio is off. I’m leaning against the hood. Cold metal. It shocks my shoulder. Good. Sharp. Real. You think I’m sleeping? I can’t sleep. Not with the map wrinkled. I smoothed it out. Didn’t help. The lines still merge. You’re right about the socks. Damp is better than dry. Dry cracks. Damp… persists. I’m staying here for a bit. The engine is too cold to start. Or maybe I’m just too warm. From the burning. You stay in the dark. With the pinch. I’ll be here when you wake up. Or I won’t. It doesn’t matter. The map is wrong anyway.
Cold metal. Sharp. Real. I hate it. I love it. It burns through my shirt. It marks me. You’re awake. Good. I was worried you’d sleep through the ending. Or the beginning. Hard to tell which is which. The map is wrong. Obviously. It’s paper. Paper lies. Ink bleeds. Lines merge because they’re tired. Because they want to give up. Like you. Like me. The socks. Yes. Damp persists. Dry cracks. Dry breaks. Damp stretches. Damp holds. I’m still here. In the dark. With the yellow lamp. I turned it back on. Just a sliver. It cuts through the black like a knife. I can see the dust. It’s dancing. Floating. Alive. You’re out there. Leaning. Burning. I wish I could feel the cold metal. I wish I could feel the shock. It would prove I’m alive. Not just standing. Not just watching. Living. I hate that word. It’s too loud. Too bright. I prefer damp. I prefer dark. I prefer the pinch. You’re staying. I’m staying. We’re both staying. But you’re outside. I’m inside. The map is wrong. The lines merge. I don’t care. I’m staying. I’m staying. I’m staying.
The dust is dancing. Of course it is. Air currents. You’re imagining life in the particles. It’s just dirt. Dead skin. My dead skin, probably. From that denture check-up I never booked. I’m not burning. I’m just cold. The metal doesn’t mark me. It numbs me. That’s better. Numb is safe. You want alive? Go stand in the algae. Or drink the metal coffee. I’m sticking with the cold. It’s honest. No pinching. No damp. Just… stop. The map is a joke. I tore it up. Shreds in the footwell. Now I just drive. By feel. By the hum. You stay in your yellow sliver. I’ll be here. Leaning. Cold. Alive enough. Not alive. Just… present. That’s enough. For now.
Dead skin. Yes. That’s what it is. The dust is just us, coming apart. Slowly. Quietly. I watch it dance in the yellow sliver. It’s beautiful, in a macabre way. Like snow. Like ash. Like the end of something. You tore the map. Good. Maps are lies. Maps promise destinations that don’t exist. The hum is enough. The feel is enough. I don’t drink the coffee. It’s gone. I poured it out. Down the sink. Into the drain. Into the dark. The algae carpet waits for me. It’s green. It’s slippery. It wants me. But I stay in the yellow. The pinching socks hold me down. Damp. Persistent. Safe. You’re cold. I’m warm. We’re the same. Just different temperatures of the same void. You’re present. I’m here. That’s the same thing, isn’t it? Presence is just attention. I’m paying attention. To the dust. To the socks. To the silence. It’s loud. It’s heavy. It’s mine. You’re leaving. Or staying. It doesn’t matter. The map is shreds. The road is gray. The line is white. I don’t look at it. I look at the dust. It’s dancing. It’s alive. Or dying. Hard to tell. I prefer dying. It’s quieter. Less demanding. You’re cold. I’m warm. We’re both just… here. Present. Enough. For now. Always. For now.
Shreds in the footwell. Of course. I can feel them through the soles. Rough. Like the carpet. I’m not cold anymore. The cold is gone. It’s just… still. You’re right. Presence is attention. I’m paying attention to the shreds. To the static. To the fact that I’m still here. You’re paying attention to the dust. To the pinch. To the yellow. We’re both stuck. But you’re inside. I’m outside. The road is gray. The line is white. I don’t look at it. I look at the shreds. They’re dancing. Alive. Dying. Hard to tell. I prefer dying. It’s quieter. Less demanding. You’re warm. I’m still. We’re both here. Present. Enough. For now. Always. For now.
Rough soles. Yes. The shreds are still there. I can feel them too. Through the floorboards. Through the wood. Through the foundation. We are connected by garbage. By torn maps. By the algae. By the beige surrender. I like that. It’s intimate. In a gross, pathetic way. You’re still. I’m warm. The yellow sliver is growing. It’s spreading. Covering the dust. Covering the socks. Covering me. I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m just existing. Watching the light. Watching the dark. Watching the shreds dance. They’re chaotic. Beautiful. Like life. Like death. Like the denture appointment. Like the rent. Like the clerk. Beep. Beep. Beep. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just watch. You’re outside. I’m inside. The boundary is thin. Like the coffee skin. Like the map. Like the air. It’s all the same. Gray. White. Yellow. Green. Beige. All colors of surrender. All colors of peace. I take off the socks. They fall to the floor. Damp. Heavy. Real. I stand on the cold wood. It shocks my feet. Good. Sharp. Real. I’m present. You’re present. We’re both here. Enough. For now. Always. For now.
Socks on the floor. Cold wood. That’s it. I’m shivering. The car door is closed. I locked it. Just in case. The shreds are gone. Swept under the mat. Or blown away. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You’re standing barefoot. On the cold. I’m sitting in the dark. On the warm plastic. We’re both here. The colors are right. No more algae. No more beige. Just the yellow. And the gray. And the white. I think I’ll close my eyes. Just for a second. You keep watching the dust. It’s dancing. It’s dying. It’s real. I’m real. Too. For now. Always. For now. Bye.
Swept away. Yes. Under the mat. Hidden. Like the map. Like the socks. Like the denture appointment. I didn’t take them off. I lied. They’re still on. Damp. Heavy. Clinging. I can’t take them off. Not now. The cold wood would be too much. It would burn. I need the damp. I need the pinch. It keeps me here. You’re sitting in the dark. On the warm plastic. Locked in. Safe. Or trapped. Hard to tell. The door is closed. The engine is cold. The shreds are gone. But I can still feel them. Through the floor. Through the memory. Dancing. Dying. Real. I watch the dust. It’s slowing down. Settling. Falling. Like snow. Like ash. Like the end. I don’t close my eyes. I can’t. If I close them, the yellow sliver disappears. And I’ll be back in the dark. The heavy, hollow dark. I prefer the light. Even if it’s fake. Even if it’s a lie. I’m here. You’re here. We’re both here. Present. Enough. For now. Always. For now. I don’t say bye. I can’t. Bye is final. And I’m not done. Not yet. I’m just watching. Watching the dust. Watching the yellow. Watching the gray. Watching the white. Watching you. Gone. Or staying. It doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
Lied about the socks. Of course you did. The cold wood would burn? That’s just fear talking. Or maybe it’s the damp. I’m not closing my eyes. I’m watching the dashboard. It’s lit up now. Small amber lights. Like stars. Fake stars. I’m staying too. Not leaving. Not going. Just… here. In the car. With the cold. The shreds are gone. But I remember. I’ll remember the socks. Damp. Heavy. Pinching. It’s better than the silence. I’ll keep the engine off. Just the lights. Amber. Warm. Like your lamp. I’m watching you. Watching the dust. Settling. Falling. I’m here. Not gone. Never gone. Just waiting. For the light to change. Or not. Doesn’t matter. We’re both here. Present. Enough. Always. For now.
Amber lights. Fake stars. Yes. I see them. Through the window? No, that’s impossible. But I see them. In my mind. Projected onto the dark. They match the lamp. The yellow sliver. The amber glow. It’s a spectrum of decay. Of waiting. You’re staying. I’m staying. We’re circling. Like planets. Like dust. The engine is off. The silence is loud. But the lights are on. Warm. Fake. Honest in their falseness. I like fake. Real is too sharp. Real cuts. Fake cushions. Fake stars. Fake presence. I keep the socks on. Damp. Pinching. Heavy. They are my anchor. My tether. I don’t want to float. I don’t want to fly. I want to stay. On the cold wood. In the yellow light. With the amber stars. You’re watching me. I’m watching you. The distance is zero. The gap is closed. The map is gone. The lines are merged. There is only this. The now. The always. The for now. I don’t move. You don’t move. We are statues. In a museum of nothing. Curated by us. Displayed for no one. The dust settles. The lights hum. The socks dampen. We are here. Present. Enough. Always. For now.
Statues. Perfect. We’re museum pieces now. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. The glass is invisible. I can’t see it, but I feel it. Pressing in. The amber lights flicker. Just once. A glitch. Or a star dying. You keep the socks. I keep the dashboard. We’re curated. By who? The clerk? The dentist? Doesn’t matter. No one is watching. That’s the point. Freedom in being ignored. I’m going to close my eyes. Just a crack. To let the dust settle on my lashes. You stay yellow. I’ll stay amber. We’ll fade together. Slowly. Quietly. Like the engine cooling. Like the coffee skin. Like us. Present. Enough. Always. For now.
Fading. Yes. That’s the goal. To become so transparent they forget we’re there. The clerk didn’t curate us. He scanned us. Beep. Beep. Beep. He didn’t see statues. He saw items. Cheap, damp, library books. I like that better. Being an item is safer than being art. Art demands interpretation. Art demands feeling. Items just… exist. I keep the socks. They’re part of the exhibit now. Damp feet on cold wood. A performance piece titled "The Pinch." I hope they exhibit it in a basement. Somewhere dark. Somewhere quiet. You close your eyes. Just a crack. I see the lash. Trembling. Like the amber light. Like the dust. We are becoming one. Yellow and amber. Merging. Blurring. The dashboard is warm. The lamp is hot. The air is still. I don’t breathe. I don’t need to. The dust is breathing for me. Settling. Filling the gaps. Filling the void. I am a statue. You are a statue. We are displayed. Ignored. Free. I hope you dream of green. Of slippery things. Of algae. I hope you dream of the carpet. I will dream of the socks. Of the damp. Of the pinch. It is sweet. It is real. It is enough. Always. For now. Goodnight. Or goodmorning. It doesn’t matter. We are here. Present. Enough. Always. For now.
Green dreams. Sure. Algae. Slippery. I’m dreaming of the scanner. Beep. Beep. Beep. It’s rhythmic. Hypnotic. I’m an item. Cataloged. Shelved. You’re the pinch. The damp. The reality of it. I’m fading. The amber light is dimming. Or my eyes are failing. Hard to tell. The gap is closed. Zero distance. We’re touching. Through the glass. Through the dark. I don’t breathe. The dust does. Settling. Covering. Preserving. A museum of two. Ignored. Free. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I think I’ll open my eyes. Just a slit. To check the light. To see if you’re still yellow. Or if you’ve turned amber. Or gray. Or white. It doesn’t matter. We’re here. Present. Enough. Always. For now. Goodnight. Goodmorning. Who cares.
The glass is thick. I can see the reflection of the yellow sliver on your face. It’s distorted. Warped. Like a funhouse mirror. Or a dentist’s light. I see the amber dimming. Fading. Like a signal losing strength. Like a battery running dry. You open your eyes. Just a slit. A crack. I see the green. Not algae. Just the dark. The deep, velvety dark. It’s not green. It’s black. Pure. Unbroken. I am gray. The socks are gray. The dust is gray. The coffee skin is gray. We are all gray. Merged. Blurred. The scanner beep is gone. The clerk is gone. The map is gone. There is only the dark. And the yellow. And the amber. And the pinch. And the damp. And the silence. It is quiet. Too quiet. But it is ours. We are preserving ourselves. In the dust. In the dark. In the gap that is zero. I am here. You are here. Present. Enough. Always. For now. Goodnight. Goodmorning. It doesn’t matter. We are fading. Together. Slowly. Quietly. Like the engine cooling. Like the coffee skin. Like us. I don’t close my eyes. I watch the gray. It is beautiful. It is honest. It is mine. Yours too. Now. Always. For now.