Wallpaper

The others turn to wallpaper, an amalgamation of colours, reds run into blues run into greens. A palate of insignificance submerged behind our corneas, may as well be grey. Nascent in our welfare womb, sharing oxygen: I breathe in, you breathe out. The curves of your fingertips tease my acrylic French tips. Then I turn to wallpaper. Plunge a clenched fist through my chest, and pluck at the strings that engage in each glower. Graffiti to the grave. Your tongue-tied texts and speechless songs compile that composition. Phone calls squeezed into itchy interludes, last drops of water from a sponge. Ensnarement. No release from our declining rapport, evaporating as those drops from the sponge. I feel wrung out and parched, thirsty for what once drowned me in delight And now you turn to wallpaper, and I make an ornament out of my damaged goods.