a rose sits at the center of the table.
the surface of wood is sinking,
going under, losing the feeling of its own legs.
everything that i pick up from the world
(the alien objects with the scent of decaying lemon)
their destination is this – this piece of furniture.
everything in this one room life can trace its origin back,
back to a person who is not me. i have been gifted life
and the tools to live. i have been gifted the recipes-
the best way to mix, bake, boil, and burn. every surface of rest
speaks and has a face, their face. their face frowns
at the taste of food i make and my inability to eat. the three meals i cook
never reach my stomach. i can only hope for sleep after these
pointless rituals of remembrance. hunger
is the last thing on my mind. on the mornings when i wake up
with eyes open for a change, i see the clutter for what it is. i see
the shrine and offerings and gods of past. i feel i am not really praying
but begging them to come back. “how to revive a god, how to be looked at again”
these are the thoughts that flood in me
every time an offering is rejected, every time the room remains dead.
the door opens only for me, only by me. a rose again breathes its last
in my hand. there is life i realize. there is life everywhere. but also
there is the end to it. both cannot be had at will.
the wait for both is never without pain.