Pretending to linger I make a show of standing on the threshold one shoulder inside this room we’ve filled with moments, cheeks smooshed against windows limbs spilling, grasping from cupboards unclosed and floorboards lifting loose to show the bodies no longer hidden, buried beneath.
Time tests all things, makes steady work of wearing out these old duds, till they fall off and run like sand along the length of your hourglass, or come back into fashion, following along worn grooves and ever turning cycles deepening down each mark.
I am very good at sweating the small thing, like watermarks on a kitchen counter that are really tea stains from what must have been the teabag chucking Olympics because the kettle is the other end of the room, as are the mug, and the tea caddies, and oh yes, the sugar! In fact the milk is the only thing not that end, unless you were the one doing the brews in which case the milk is also that end because heavens forbid it should live in the fridge where it might just survive to its use-by instead of souring like my expression whenever I come downstairs to find dishwasher empty! but no space to move for dirty plates, cups, bowls, all stacked smallest to largest in cracked crockery Jenga challenge number sixty, guess it’s time to see what’s on sale in the supermarket kitchen department.
She has the same look about her, or so it seems when she tilts her cheek just so and the tides shift, shrink in on themselves so ashamed by her disappointment. Uncanny, how similar she seems reflected beside me.
He’d be gone before the rubble settled. Leave a town burning in his wake, crushed stone slithering through cracks like sand in a broken hourglass, pooling empty hours into empty streets. This seafarer, spacefarer, carving out his stamp on a place so he might be able to see it from above when he glanced down at the ruins he’d built. He must have seen a beauty in destruction or why would he have sought out more?