Tin-can Telephones
I think I’ve got a routine now.
Every morning I shower, I brush,
get my cup of green tea and
a ridiculously delicious butter cookie
and stand in my balcony and cry
because
I want a tin-can telephone
with its string ever taut,
straining from the weight of whispers and shouts
and laughter and sobs.
Because a tin—can telephone has just one thing to do—
It makes sure I’m bound to another human being
who might also need someone to talk to.
I see twenty-three windows and fourteen balconies
within tin-can telephone radius.
And yet,
not one of the faces
popping in and out of visibility
ever smiles back at me.
I don’t blame them, they might be
too far to notice me... too busy,
bogged down by their own misery...
But at night when dots of cancerous embers trace
their cigarettes as they pace
the length of their balconies,
I wish I smoked
because,
Maybe then I’d ask them for a drag
and we’d lose all sense of gravity, temporarily,
And we’d talk, REAL conversations,
not those phony sounds that
merely mimic human interaction, no,
we’d talk about loneliness, desire, ambition,
pain and redemption, expectations and reality
and imminent finality
and then,
we’d rest easy knowing that today,
we were seen, we were heard,
we were perceived, almost fully,
that for the briefest of moments,
the blood invigorating my soul
spattered upon yours and
you... were not repulsed,
you didn’t feel the need to clean it up.
The next morning I’d catch a glimpse
of your bloodstains upon my heart
and smile.
Liked or faved by...
