Cleaning the dirt off of
door frames with dampened
paper towels just to witness
all the build up over time.
It takes drops of blood on
the white floor to stop her
from just simply leaning against
the mirror.
There is no one here,
and the sounds of footsteps
echo against the drywall
even though you wouldn’t
expect them to, and the corners
and open windows distort them
so nothing is able sound like itself.
With just an empty shelf she finds
a space for all her memories, fading
pictures in their boxes like retreating
dreams, or just deleted scenes.
Held up against the glass between them,
they try to make sense of each other
with nothing but the messages carved
neatly into their hands, blurring things
more with every touch.
Teleporting Typewriter 