Dosed

I’m sitting on the arm chair, I’m reminded by the undesirable chatter broken by sudden smallness of how off white the floor tiles are. Like rows and rows of tired heads laying on tired shoulders gripping pocket books. Full of faces we’ve met once only to go home to our apartments disregarding the hands shook and ink complacency. Book shelves screaming ” but don’t leave me here” and your cigarette turns to ash and so do the pockets of of un laundered clothing. Left to gather on train tracks of ailments. Heads and tails, smooth as luck. Picking off the scabs of another suburban wall. Placed in looming corners, assuming we can acknowledge the present. Am I that number? I became too obscure to lay my head down or place my feet. Dragging glass bottles behind my heels like a recently married pair. Climbing up the stairs but clambering to hours of tangible air time. Whistling to apathetic dreams we both share.”