Dust : dead skin - that’s how people view it
To me it’s just dust.
Not bits of people or bits of skin, but bits of nature, soft dirt, blowing from the edges of tables with the winds and then gathering together, flowing through the air, and then landing, cushioned in one corner of a room, one crack in a wall, wherever, that was dust to me
Not pieces of dead skin.
And I have viewed dust this way for years, any time I were to imagine it in passing conversations, I envisaged It in this thorough detailed way in a moments worth of seconds. The beauty of the human brain can be as of the romantic kind, beautifully descriptive in a light-speed of time. We it could be, have part of us which is inherently beautiful. An ability to interpret Shakespeare’s descriptions of love into a fold of memory, glimpsing up at you throughout your days.
It’s your telepathic mind that swooned me
Your ability to speak my thoughts without giving me a chance.
I also liked your yellow tipped fingers, your rotting teeth and matted hair.
Or maybe it was your naked body when it lay at the foot of my bed, creasing my linen.
I never did care, don’t you remember ?
We’d live in a mass of each others mess. It had spread down through the gaps in my floorboards by the time you had left, keep in mind that ii never removed the carpet.
I’d adapted to missing half of my wardrobe too, having cigarette burns in every piece of cloth I owned.
I never cared, I wore them in a bohemian fashion anyway.
I didn’t even mind your illness in the end.
I almost saw through the same blurred lens which was so blacked out at times that I was afraid to step
In case i fell.
Which of course I did.
Quite horrifically.
I’d get snowed under whilst I was down, face flat to the floor.
How i badly i did fall…
You can still see the scars,
Printed above each thigh
And in the corner of my hip,
Pressed on there in the form of a heart shaped tattoo.
I’m sure I tarnished your skin too.
I probably rotted your heart , broke it or something.
Though I’m still surprised my blood is still able to pump.
You still tell me now that you have an inability to love.
I nod, claiming I feel the same about myself, sometimes I even believe these lies.
But I think your absence of honesty acts as a barrier between us both.
It Stops the truth hitting home, which would eventually burn great holes in our souls and destroy any bit of dignity we have left.
I agree to not go there, I agree to live with myself rather than with you.
I have for 3 years now, I just can’t seem to shake you off.
I am jack Kerouac and you are my road; “the road is life” after all.
