Wallpaper
The others turn to wallpaper,
an amalgamation of colours,
reds run into blues run into greens.
A palate of insignificance
submerged behind our corneas,
may as well be grey.
Nascent in our welfare womb,
sharing oxygen: I breathe in, you breathe out.
The curves of your fingertips
tease my acrylic French tips.
Then I turn to wallpaper.
Plunge a clenched fist through my chest, and
pluck at the strings that engage in each glower.
Graffiti to the grave.
Your tongue-tied texts and
speechless songs
compile that composition.
Phone calls squeezed into
itchy interludes,
last drops of water from a sponge.
Ensnarement.
No release from our declining rapport,
evaporating as those drops from the sponge.
I feel wrung out and parched,
thirsty for what once
drowned me in delight
And now you turn to wallpaper, and I
make an ornament out of my
damaged goods.
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