FINGER WRESTLES PEN

It's late

and I'm proud of myself,

not giving in to glassy eyes

and vacant stares.

This room expands

around

my tiny body

situated upright

on one eighth of 

my bed.

My things around me,

I have no possessions,

this was supposed to 

feel good.

And it does-

I couldn't possess you anyway.

The wee hours I usually pass

in dreams,

but tonight, I notice

the lack

The clouds are rows of icebergs

making paths to icy plateaus.

Below them lie the playing blocks of

browns, sun-bleached and shaded.

The ranges

to the East, are on the left

and I'm perceptibly inching

my way home.

Uninviting from here,

the vastness, a diorama of nothing

much.

And I wonder, is everyone kidding themselves?

Contentedness is not with another

when so little, can change such a lot.

"I accidentally came inside you".

Now I'm going home to destroy this

Schrödinger's cat.

And I don't much mind.

I imagine there is much to learn.

A fuck every now and then is essential.

The existential are bound for

themselves and not much more.

Rather self fulfilment than

discontent

in others.

The way back is always quicker than the first journey.

And the bright sun up here deceives the

gloomy city

of this descent.

This country

monopolising too many horizons,

made me brave

Planes were once my thing.

Looking down

granted perspective.

Then my fingers would wrestle

that pen

and all the minor whirrings

burst

to inundate the page.

I spent a year on planes

and nothing.

I knew there was much time

and nothing happened.

No Thing.