The 10th Story

Stale light.
Antiquated and wise, is an image for itself.
It slithers across a wall painted white named beloved.
The irony of locked hands, we are.

Dry and opaque, elusively deceiving.

It percolates through a window as if suspended in time.
It is a hinged reality.

In new york, it is always quiet despite all the damned awful noise.
Streets cluttered in a farrago of colors and static,
texture of life, all gray.

Broad sheer beams, like piercing liquid,
floating,
bending, breaking the distance between animation and slumber,
a curious line drawn in my remote conversation with the illusion of anything material.

Whispering softly,
I come from the sun.
Familiar warmth.
A memorable yet strange friend.
The irony of locked hands, we are.
Thatched ambivalence, layer upon layer of imagery slipping,
precariously daring, defying, the physics of intimacy, a bittersweet farewell elucidated by the juxtaposed circumstance of locked hands.


I do not know my friend.