I walk in and the bedroom is still the same. Static.
Static, motionless, loveless before your absence,
I stand in the bedroom that remains the same.
The sun still shines and I can see the blinds reflected on the wall,
Exactly the same way they were that morning in November.
It seemed like summer.
Remember?
Just wipe your feet before you walk in,
Would you?
Stains of mud don’t seem to come out easily.
In some time, not enough time, I know,
I will get down on my knees,
Again dip my hands into a bucket full of Clorox
And hope that my nails are fierce, strong enough to scratch off your footsteps from the intimacy of the bedroom.
The intimacy of my static, motionless, loveless self.
Don’t bring mud into the house.
I know it won’t come out.
And, please, I need you to take your footsteps with you when you decide it’s time to fly.
Fly away.
Everyone flies.
I, on the contrary, seem to belong here,
Static, motionless, loveless, in a bedroom that still is the same in its deepest essence,
With the same restless sun bursting through the blinds
Making obvious, again, the absence of you.
It seems almost funny,
[unlikely, unnatural]
To picture myself,
[invited, wanted]
Leaving stains on someone else’s nest.
Would he ever walk in his bedroom,
[in that outer world his life seems to me]
To find,
[static, motionless, loveless]
That its emptiness is filled
[in fair exchange]
With the absence of me?
Would he ever walk in his bedroom
To find
That its emptiness is filled
With the absence of me?
In that outer world his life seems to me,
Static, motionless, loveless,
In fair exchange.
By Anita Petry
