hard wood touched my toes. I staggered towards the stool in its red effect. The coolness of my bare stained tips spoke a foreign language to the place that was once filled with envelopes of love. The cards lay turned upside down set in a miniscule space. Not all red, not all black. Some just lay there waiting. Which one do I choose?
At the corner of my eye, the seating plan still remains along with the left over amounts of chicken sliced and diced in to tiny pieces; scattered in to ashes of shavings and created in to a delicious bite. Yet here I was, spinning with excitement in this space, hazily enjoying the dream of the nights that were to be had, and reminiscing of the ones that had passed; those nights that seemed to never end, and would wander in to the bright blue place we called morning. I was happy when it kicked in. This was a reminiscent time of reflection.
I remember feeling at the edge of that despair when the feeling would wear off. I would clutch on to the only straw I had left; my last lifeline, and in their eyes I could see them welling up. A frozen teardrop landed on Jessica's cheek and it just stood there. She couldn't help me.
Plenty of people tried.
"I tried to fix you" my lover would even say.
I know he tried but even glue can hide the imperfections and not save the inside.
Jessica was my best friend. We did everything together, until it became too much for her to deal with. I remember her giving me that choice.
"I can't do this!" She cried.
"Watching you fall in to this and not being able to save you is killing me."
I remember turning towards Jessica.
"Then just leave." I pushed her out the door. Then I text her after and told her I was sorry but she wasn't responsive. Every time I look at that picture above the stool, I see that frozen teardrop because she knew then but couldn't help me.
I look around the room wondering where to start.
The spoons stood still, probably watching and keeping the secrets of the night that turned in to day inside them. The metallic watched us, and they knew. They knew what was going on. Every wanderer had its story. At night, I'm sure they came alive with us, dancing in to the sunset, in to the only place we knew. The candles would curve up for comfort and the songs would jump out at us.
We danced with the objects of the night, and brought ourselves back to reality in the day. The cards had so much fun, the joker loved to play a few tricks and sometimes we would even win. But the reality was too much sometimes, so to speak; so the soaking up of such delights to escape such reality would drive us back.
The blank hard wood that touched those toes, he knew the story too well. It was a familiar occurrence, and then later they would befriend us and become consumed in all our emptiness.
I stared at the family portraits that spoke our lives. They crept in to the frames, and the betrayal of such a picture, because the reality was not to be the imminent future. The picture had painted so many lies; it had woven itself in to our faces and catapulted something that was not quite the same. It was almost like a regurgitation of a pretty memory that had now been descended in to darkness and despair.
I pick myself up off the floor. I'm writhing with a belly of loneliness, its sucking me up like my hoover that's just sitting there enjoying the show, whilst quickly engulfing my remains. As I pick myself up, I see the clothes spread out in adjacent order, enjoying the show. Some of the drinks have made their way to our clothes, eating it like flesh. Some remnants from the cider remain, creating a sticky reside on the oak surface boards. I watch the remnants drip from the empty bottles, splashing like little rain drops. The fruit flies have their picking of the leftovers, enjoying such delight. Some glasses didn't make it; the pretty ones have lipstick stains smothered all over them. What was once pretty became sour covered dirt. I pick up the glasses and start to clean up. The bubbles sink in to my skin and the cups and glasses look at me with a knowing smile; they know that they are loved. They know that they are going to be used, time and time again.
The blinds creep up as the dust flicks itself on to the window sills; its time for them to go to sleep. They close their eyes as the sunlight masks its way through the hidden clouds. It creates a spotlight for anything that has been covered up by the black sheets of the night. Even the chairs are in singing harmony, structured to sit in one way indefinitely, and expect the chaos of wanderers in the night. They try their hardest to get to sleep. But they never get any rest. As hard as they look with their light brown coats, they need their rest for everyone likes to throw themselves at them, on them or even over them.
I am getting ready for the next one; the next dance with my kitchen.
Where did you get it thank you you
