Calluses and experience

I was in my room
Learning the words
To the songs on the ceiling
Looped lyrics round the lampshades
Outside the window birds changed from
Swooping to dying in chromatic scale
Battered on the glass helpless as hail
You were already lost in the
Halo of a car crash

When you were clashing shoulder
Blades with nightmare knives
I was in my room
Connecting the dots
On the staves
Into filigree mosaics
Tessellating tiles like sharpened teeth
Outside the window seasons blurred
Rising and falling arpeggios
Leaves like skeletons absorbed and oblivious

I was in my room
Coaxing melted wax
Into rivulets
Burning through notepaper
With indigo ink like incense
Outside the window people were
Lacing up the country in wire
Corset constrained and powerless
You were falling into the hole
Left when your parents lost
Control of their skin cells

When you were burning and shaving
Equating removal of pain with
Unbuilding the body
I was in my room
Reading postcards
Addressed in foreign letters
Closed in dotted boxes
Words without the weight of bruises
Outside the window everyone was
Autosomatic curved in like nodes
Without potential empty of amplitude

I was in my room
While everything funnelled into entropy
Outside the window
All I can write about
Is the glass that divides us

via Calluses and experience.

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