Opposite of Infinite

- 15 -

15 - My Chest of Drawers

in my bedroom

there is an old, wooden chest of drawers

with edges that are rounded and scuffed,

circular like the edges of planets

and perfect like the petals of plants.

edges that were once sharp.

the curve of a butterfly's wing.

covering it,

is a layer of fading paint,

the colours gently receding

like a forbidden lover

leaving bed in the morning.

I had painted it once,

l think.

a long time ago.

swirling patterns of dreamy night skies

that swallowed up the wood

and tangling plants

that reached upwards

in an almost hopeless attempt to fill empty space.

tangled in the branches of trees.

trees that stood prominent and tall,

almost dominating the landscape in their silhouetted forms.

there is a boy in it too,

although he is probably more faded than the rest.

he holds a camera

and a paintbrush

because I taught him how to see things

for more than just what they are.

and he has wings too,

although that is impossible.

long, black, feathered wings

that the flowers

often grapple to hold onto.

the sun and the moon are together

in a time that is neither night nor day.

the stars are not falling

but shining bright,

permanent in a fabricated picture of imagination

that is losing to the battle of time.

your shirt remains in the drawer centered in the top right corner;

the one with the sun painted on it.

if I opened it,

the wood would creak out in protest

like a tired breath

rattling inside my chest

as it is forced to physically fight

in order to make its escape

out of my lungs.

inside the ribcage.

the place where my heart resides.

all of the flowers have wilted now,

merely an exhausted heap

as they pile up inside of me,

mixed up with all sorts of dried up paint

that bind them together

in one big clump

and give them the illusion of colour.

they make it even harder for me to breathe.

and, as I sit with skin

that looks as if it has been encrusted

with the lines of a map

and hands that tremble

when I move

to pick up a bush,

I feel like paper.

paper that has been used,

used and used again.

paper that is fragile, easily teared

and riddled with scribbled out tales.

sayings and stories

never to be told again.

crumpled up and transparent

when held up to the light.

I attempt to read through everything,

but find myself struggling to find every word

when the sharp hands of the watch on my wrist

have sliced through more moments

than I care to admit.

I do remember you, though.

and it's a nice thought,

a sort of dream I slip into

as I close my eyes.