Light bulbs, balls of light in the sky replacing the sun. one day
you get blind from looking up, just like that.
you are no longer able to see the walls. dust decides to land
a dead colony upon your face. but even what appears to be alive
is mostly not anymore, something has died between the eyes,
it is no longer you talking. the spaghetti is boiling in the pot. a rebellion
of loose pipes, countless, dangerous asparagus. you play along:
you are lying on the linoleum like in a dark vertex river,
awaiting his return. when he enters the walls shake.
he loves you like he does the feeling of satiation, discipline. disciplined and strict.
he loves you like he does the radio. the foam from the pot crawls onto your inaudible lips.
night leaves afternoon’s skin, flies into the room like a butterfly, sneaks
under the carpet together with the toes. the light bulbs readily leave the sky.
something has been born inside of you, but will never live, you are full of time
but time refuses to be full of you: there are no eyes for crying, the hair
is leaving the vertex, love takes place in the living room, those are the consequences.