roamingaround

The Nonsense Museum (a year in review):

I've been memorizing the placement of objects, the dust on the windowsills. The postcards and polaroids you taped to the wall in your room---equidistant, in a grid. The first time I woke up with you, I studied them. The shadow of a hand. A dog. One says, in black script: "Does Anyone Love You?" In the kitchen: a map of Florida, and a child with an assault rifle. Traci Lords sitting cross-legged, with eyes cast down.

This broken narrative, which paves your walls, has turned this year into a museum. These private jokes are ours and, dismantled, they mean nothing. When you move away, this place will die.

Lately, I have found ways not to look at you. I look at the walls instead.