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By Jim Submitted by jwb71913 Date: 2003 Feb 07 Comment on this Work [[2003.02.07.15.00.7144]] |
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Droplets drift down the side of the glass, meandering like ant trails in the sand, glueing the glass to the desk as surely as if it had been clamped. I am stuck again, before this hunk of plastic, searching for something that I cannot find elsewhere, hoping and waiting for the little ding that means someone also searches for me in the darkness. We speak in riddles, metaphors of lust and longing, empty promises of a future not rooted in the present. The glass empties, and is quickly refilled, as darkness falls upon the yard, and the child cries for sustenance. Does he not see that desperation feeds me, and false hope grounds me, that I think not of him or his life or his friends or his dinner? My lust overwhelms the room, casting a mist upon reality, and creating a womb from which I cannot be removed, not even by force. The light from the computer warms me, and the empty words of love, remind me persistently that I can feel, and see, and hear, and taste But cannot ever touch, beyond the walls. The glass is empty again, brb. |