Cars splashing graphite all over the pavement,
on my hollow canvas of a room. Eyelids down,
half-day away now's your warm statue lain
as a landmark, so your home world can be found.
Your PC and drawings, mouse cage aren't around,
like the view around the corner, your bed room is torn off
from your stillness, your motion, figures and shapes -
colored mercury shadows, thin mercury air.
Half-day away in your room glowing gray,
your head turned aside, the wallpaper escapes
your gaze aimed elsewhere, not there,
not fixed - the eye muscles and pupil
follow your mindless stare blindly, unaware
there's nothing for seeing.
Lit on nerve tissue, the perfect you-film
is revealing surfaces and shades, the scene
I might be in, but then my part
is that of absence, for we're apart.
In your room, that belongs to a metalhead teen,
your wrist is a gesture, as if from a picture
your figure had grown, gaining dashes and smears.
You are a still life. Your contours stitch you.
Thoughts of you and yourself now nobody hears.