A collaborative poem written by myself and Eric Rudko on 4/26/10.
...and there was no wall
"It's the kind of happiness that can only come in a vial,”
she said, her eyes dulled over by years of wear,
black mascara on her hand where she tried to erase
the tears, hand shaking a jack and coke with ice clink on glass
he had never noticed the paint on the wall,
before that moment, nor how the bags she wore chronicled a month
of disgust and neglect, decrepitude. Stagnation.
The walls became unfamiliar over time, the curtains tattered,
"Likewise", he muttered to none but he,
and fixated on the ragged tatters, crimson against daylight
that passed as she sat, staring outside through the holes
that was the only daylight she had seen for a month.
Sweat hung about her glass, following the ice as it fell
with each sip, the room heavy with ash and almond
colored wallpaper. The ripples swimming, undulating.
She would reach out her hand but it met with no solid surface.
The floor was cool, but inviting, her soft cheek
against dust, her warmth creeping away like a thief, and all he could do was watch.
