What we share is a door past the subject’s cognizance. And when you come in you won’t want to stay or leave. You’ll be, at the same time, locked in and locked out of the immediate object—
ours— to rattle windows behind ghostly curtains or tap on the pane to stand in the rain with the holly bushes.
The degree to which phenomena is a comfort is, naturally, a bucking horse, which is to say, that the whole house is falling a million miles an hour until your eyeballs burst into flame, your spine a lightning bolt. This essence of intimacy, past the principal of sufficient ground, leaves you whining why but still willing, an eternal hurtle whenever you find it. Inside, underneath or hanging from the gutter— you will not escape.
What isn’t destroyed will pull its jacket back on, shake shoulders at the cracks, and wish it were just hung over— wandering in the grocery store saying I I I me me me you you you? To babies in the cart, less lost than the parents who search for ways to compare brands of pudding. Is that what you wanted when you snuggled and clutched and your pillow at night?
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