Saturday, 16 November 2013
This flat held so much potential.
Now the space is deafening to sensitive ears
shouting tirades of death and mental illness
daily, hourly-weekly, hurriedly, incessantly.
Walking on the eggshells of that night,
one night, most nights in fact,
when I saw you green with dizziness,
my fear; your fear.
as if spun in a washing machine.
One reliant upon the other.
I could not decipher the words oozing from your mouth,
I could not help you,
Could not see what you were showing me
or accept this apparition.
a year to the day,
In every room,
I run my fingertips along
every step-by-step from bathroom wall to bedroom wall
every dog-scratched wall
every fingerprinted wall
every wall that holds this house together:
every dead wall breathes life into this unbearable loss.
Could not talk, speak, articulate, convey, illustrate.
just nonsense words and letters jumbled up on a non-concrete page.
To the bathroom then,
a wonky floorboard of immutable melancholy
squeaks harshly in the otherwise empty 3am.