No Going Home


I’m at that place where I don’t want to go home but I can’t stay here, on this little bench, listening to other people have fun, hearing the echoes of laughter and conversation. I can’t be outside any more, face pressed to the glass watching hungrily. I don’t know what I’m hoping for though, someone to magically appear and include me, to pick me up out of myself and lead me into a room with light and music. So I’m just sitting here, trying to write because the words are the only thing left giving me any shape at all, but they’re playing hooky tonight and I’m fading away. I feel one night I’ll just be a ghost reflected in glass, the barest outline of an image existing only as the mirage out of eye corners that turns into the back of a chair or the silhouette of a hatstand upon closer inspection. I’m still waiting on losing my voice, it sounds more and more like the cackling of starlings or the mechanical buzz of cicadas, nothing human, something meaningless, inarticulate blank sound that hums beneath consciousness, the feeling of toothache or migraine. I’m intolerable to myself, the room mate that’s always leaving less than a mouthful of milk in the carton, a thing to be put up with, like taxes or prostate exams only less beneficial. I haunt myself only because I’m the only one who remembers that I died a long time ago in a place I can’t recall save for the beating of wings, they resound in my dreams, becoming the roll of the tides becoming the shadow sweet lapping of a body I spurned, turning myself to ashes upon the turning away until all I can ever see are little red headed girls forever dashing out of sight around street corners leaving only the faint scent of a perfume I can remember through all the empty rooms and layers of dust and varnish polishing the collage of decoupage photographs laminated beneath my skin. Somewhere along the line I became an ancient bar top, the lid of a piano nicked and cut and scored, greasy with fingerprints, burnished with tears over gin, a study in amber seen through the thick bottom of a tumbler containing a single ice cube and the molecule thin film of single malt. No clue, no point, no direction left, just forgotten in the corner mumbling to myself in 3/4 time about lost watches and falling petals, searching my pockets for loose tobacco and the bus ticket I forgot to use that was meant to take me somewhere, anywhere else other than here and now where I’ve ended up sitting and wishing I didn’t want to not want to go home.

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4 Responses to “No Going Home”

  1. the little stars let you know that someone cares
    caring is not enough
    there must be more
    what to do
    words fail me

  2. at your left shoulder - few steps back Says:

    would beam you back in a heartbeat
    keep the demons away for a bit
    let you remember what it is to feel connected
    let your true nature re-surface
    breathe in love
    more of you for your kith and kin
    a turn of the k’scope

  3. tiny steps
    put the other foot on the floor first tomorrow
    stir the cuppa with the other hand
    use the other eye as judge when looking at your reflection
    change the order of names when you bless the young souls each night before surrendering to sleep
    listen for my prayer in the leaves’ evening song
    here’s a soothing northern song:

  4. quicksilver's horse Says:

    just a whisper through the keyhole
    on my rounds
    good day to you
    kind sir

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