Why do you love clothes
and not rooms?
I notice how
you never travel with your rooms,
you never take them with you,
you only leave them
behind,
maybe return
sometimes.
I notice how
your rooms rarely remain
the same,
even if you only leave for
just a few moments.
I wonder:
is it the stillness
you cannot understand
nor accept,
the stillness that is maddening,
the stillness of your rooms
that are filled with the stillness
of you;
your clothes on the floor,
the chairs and tables
you chose -
or chose
you,
the plants on the sill,
the paintings
leanings against
walls...?
These
things, things,
unmoving, undead
things, things
living in your room;
trapped in drawers,
locked in closets,
hidden so carelessly
beneath the bed;
things
that hide your name
while exposing
your face.
For once, just once,
when you leave,
don't lock the door behind you,
just see what happens next.
Will you do that for me,
please?
Los Angeles - 1/24/07
