I sit in the dirt, and you in your throne. I grow to your window, and see you aren’t home.

I grow past his ceiling, and call out your name. I scream and I shout, and you do the same.

I grow and I grow, and I grow to the sky, a castle is here, an ogre nearby.

Bombardier at Speakertree in Lynchburg, Virginia on January 27, 2017.

Photographs by Jackson Kim.

This was an amazing show at an amazing venue. These guys are doing really cool things in a really cool style that’s worth a listen.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BombardierVa/

A voyeur to the emptiness, my head and heart rush and the room echoes with sound, Yet, I do not know if I am welcome here any more than anything else, it does not matter.

I sink myself into the mirror and poke and prod and analyze I wonder if anyone can see, or if they would watch I lift my head from my body and leave it to be.

It yells back to me, “where are you going!” I laugh, from my stomach and leave.

Headless, I shout at the walls and to the windows. They do not respond. The window raises and a lone eyeball pokes through and politely and firmly asks me to stop.

Like sound your music echoes through my ears playing out scenes where people are nice to one another. Flowers are laid on graves and coffins lower as the sun dries their eyes.

Like water you wear down rocks and shape mountains turning stone to sand and filling streams, and rivers, and oceans giving refuge and life, crashing. Like water reborn your tides shift with the moon.

Like space you collide into mine. Boundless bounding stars condensed to galaxies. Gravitational pull moving purpose, giving weight falling force.

Children ride their bikes in the street and old women rock in chairs on porches.

You were there when I was born. Younger, your hair was like mine now, and your ears like mine always, sticking out a little too far.

I wonder what you said, if you said anything, if you looked at your wife and smiled. 

I think of your office and you, late nights over a dimly lit desk where you slept most nights instead of in your bed.

I do not pity you, but I understand.

You gave me a lot, the tremors in my hands, red ears when I drink, and a roof over my head.

When I was a child I used to hide from you, I do not know why. I pressed myself down underneath the bed and held my breath as I watched you search. 

“It’s like memento mori, do you know what that means?” I stare at the painting for a moment “I don’t remember” I respond. The lemon peel sits mostly unwound, dangling off the edge of the table, the utensils and cups wandering from their natural place.

She takes a deep breath, “sure you do” I imagine her leaving the room, I take a deep breath, and she is there.