Nothing makes sense

Nothing makes sense in the mess of surroundings. Things are real when they are alone, with their essence bound. A description of the most recognizable element of my life could drag on without end because where ever it slips to in space it is never without the magnetic collection of my surroundings. It hasnt ever mattered to me why or how things end up together, on a shelf, drifting in the gutter, but what they are, what they look like in a place, not how they move, but how they pose when they are still. This vision makes time useless. I dont want to see new things, but with juxtapositions that I cannot avoid, new moments will ceaselessly appear. Everything is still in the apartment. I move through it lining things up in my vision. I kneel so that the cooled, empty mug of tea floats above her head. I close an eye so that the slope of her shins under the dress follows the strike of light across the far wall from the lamp. The flower pattern on her dress from beneath the window, where light leaks in from the street in a powder, is luminous. It flattens her. I give these things to her or leave them with her, or leave her and them together, after me. From the hallway, with one eye free into the room, I can see only her bare feet on the carpet. Her legs cross the jamb of the front door beyond as they slope up to her knees and then I am behind the wall that leads back to the bedroom and bathroom and then she is gone and the apartment is gone with my absent visions of them both. I think they are still there, but now that they have been, there is no reason for them to be again, not tonight, not in this order reversed. I slip into the bathroom. A bathroom, alone.