And the kitchen in my final state
is on the move again like an image
in a catalogue
And I think I’m getting used to the pain
of the initial separation and the change
from us to I
And I try on the third life for size
and when the fourth doesn’t fit
I see that nothing will
And I realise it’s a dead person’s flat
by that pointy stillness followed directly after
an overbearing fire alarm
And you float in this standing water –
an unfamiliar quiet
in a familiar room
And you hold your breath and mourn
the sensation of this moment
until something passes out
And it’s knowing that you keep leaving
yourself with the remnants of something
decaying at your own hands
And it’s standing there staring at the stove
hoping it will transform into a portal
or a game of Schrödinger
And it’s crying into your scarf at the supermarket
after handing away your keys for the last time
then proceeding to flirt with the cashier
And it’s wondering how others can’t understand
the seriousness in the empty halls left behind
from your own dictatorship
And it’s time spent waiting for the next year
when it’ll come down to the same sullied night
and a pathological pattern of seeking
And it’s a happy departure.
And it’s a serious wound.
A. Evensen