Nervous Pacing

There is something about today.

Something about the quiet.

Something about the mist in the cold air outside.

Something that not one single living soul could think was commonplace.

Remorse filled the air, for what reason, I cannot be sure of.

Not yet.

But i can feel this change in my bones.

I can feel it in my blood that is surging through every inch of my now, barren body.

I can't move myself.

My cigarette burns slowly in my limp fingers,

Leaning itself against the marble green ashtray.

The white swirls in the thick centerpiece resemble the smoke that slowly drifts into my eyes where it burns.

It burns, and I return, wondering what could possibly cause this ambivalence.

Why have you not awoken yet?

This silence makes me nervous.

I'm scared.

I see flashes of light behind me in the dim lit living room,

The flashes that warn you of what is to come.

I have been avoiding your door in fear of what I might find,

What my curious mind considers every time I walk past the hall.

These thoughts are dark.

They dig at the skin on the back of my neck,

Etching their names on the bones of my rib cage,

Trying to reach my only weakness.

My only weakness besides, you yourself, of course.

My steps are close together now,

And Quiet.

Reasons why?

Unsaid.

In fear I might wake the dead? 

 

Nervous Pacing Never Saved Anyone.

 

-LB 2007