The brain took a walk, without any feet.
Checking out of the body hotel, the soul could breathe. Everything started to lose its direction, no left or rights for guided protection. The decisions made seemed to be erasable, little did we know we ran out of the appropriate stationary. Stapling the letter head to the feet, and walking all over the arrangements made in play dough, nothing concrete. Trying to wash the blackboard, but these messages won’t go away. Voicemail on loud because I like the way you sound. Disconnected dial tone, knocks at the door; not answering the sounds. New soundtrack to my state of embellishment within the walls of my palace loft, and this is loft music without the percussion of our throwing pots and pans and puns and insults. Minus the pleasurable gasps of naked contact, minus the clasping of items and the stomps of feet leaving. Left. Left.Home sweet home.
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