VIII

The chair sitting there knowing and remembering a dozen pasts I'll never see never fathom never hurt for. Sitting there holy unclean unsure waiting for her to come waiting for the next speck of dirt dropping from above like a God-sent gift saying here take what's yours. But she's coming and when she comes when she sits when she opens herself and the words fall out the room takes a breath and coughs up mud. Some way she sees sun through it caked on every surface caked on her face like a plaster mold and the air getting thinner but maybe she can't feel it maybe it's me maybe I'm the one who has to. And the chair still sitting there remembering and me wanting the telling the words filling me up fattened bloating. Stains with eyes creeping dirt saying leave leave you don't have to and me saying tell me tell me and all the while the words spilling out. My ears to the roof but the mud is rising hardening suffocating blinding and all I can see is the chair that dirty remembering chair.