dry, sunday night

here are the small flowers i rescued, stole, grabbed from the dining table,
I don't know their name, they droop
 but sometimes  they waft their bouquet towards me, and i catch it, despite my burnt lips and dry mouth, itchy face
 it transports me somewhere where i understand 
the value ma and manna would place on things like
that shade of green, that song, that painting
I nod wisely if I squint, just so, I can see
those flowers are arranged
just right
 --
dryness become a state
 like the faded blue velvet sofas, it holds so much in its discomfort
just clean enough to remind you of the dreams of the sombre bihari boy who cleaned it, who toils endlessly, draped in the chemicals of dry-cleaning, 
just soft enough to sleep on and wake before your drool spills onto it, just full enough to wonder what weight fills out a second hand sofa
--
sometimes things evaporate at just the right temperature for us to dislike each other instantly and for eternity, or is it just that i am poisoned
--
i am tired of watching what i say tired of making sense
i just want to slip into the comfort of words tumbling out of me slipping out in a noose a mattress a hammock and hammer words that fumble together hold onto each other break away just for sounds fuck all this meaning