You dont ask

You dont ask anything. You dont ask anything of the walls or the black currents, impediments or diversions, and you dont ask anything of me. You are barely here. You rub your feet forward in short slow steps drawing the rainwater and sand across the carpet before finding a spot against the wall and sliding down to sit with your knees in front of your face. The curtain flutters across the kitchen, outside the same tired and still blue that you saw through the window, the light switches places. Here you are. You just sit. The things that push you are tired. At the bottom of its ebb the tide lingers. You stroke your chin as your legs grow warm without feeling. You feel sparkles and dampness. You wrap a towel around your neck and hold a mug of tea between your palms. Your hands pulse. The centers of pain represent the entirety of your body. The rhythms of heat and throbbing lap through you with the rise and fall of entreaties and naked trusts. A word spreads across you, a characterization or clue settles into the gentle stupor of your creation. You were the sand and the water, you were lost, now you have me, you have what is mine, you need it, I no longer do. There is no story in the words. They are characters that erase themselves by happening and being recognized. When they become real, shared between us, a little bit of me is let loose, a view, a movement, a lost hope, it could be in you, settling on your skin, it could be lost in the room, amongst the detritus. You dont hear. The things you need to hear about the replacement arent spoken. It has just happened that you will be when I am not and that will be seamless. The city doesnt notice those crashed asymptotes. My life wont recognize the replacement. It has no sentiment of this body. Things stay still forever. You cant occupy their places. They cant topple out of the dust; you have to escort them.