A Grisaille Wedding
Rainy Miller & Space Afrika
Fixed Abode in the month of November.
Looking across you catch that glance, one you wished to never see again. The four bars play in your head again as if it’s not been two years. Why must it come back when you need it most? A dagger through the leg causes the imbalance to fall.
It’s black and white but the rotation keeps you upright. Walking away is the only option, so why does it feel like you’re pulled forward? Repulsion and compulsion, dragged apart but so refined. You haven’t made one step, you haven’t said one word. Do you even know what you want to say?
It’s not the same, existing in this place, but why do you always end up here? It always ends before I’m ready. Turned into the water from where I stand.
The porch is half-covered by the roof of the house, overshooting and putting beams down into the brick. If it’s raining, we watch the tank fill and the water take the place of the old holey sheets rushing off the roof. In warmth we sit further out and look up from cigarettes. The changing sky. White plastic chairs glow in dusk and gossip over heavy glasses of boxed wine while the city curls around.