Now nothing

I wilt into the paint of a wall that rests somewhere against my back. In the pressure of your gaze, I am becoming a wallpaper print, loud and long. Peel me, then throw me to a wooden planked or tiled forgotten room, grind me to a rust, a dust. Then wander we will in slow forgotten drafts on dirty floors finding new corners to clutter.

I remember and forget the whys we came this direction. Scuttle and cluster, we're filling drafts with words irrelevant and sorrowful. Ghostly settling, still. All that seemed solid and cared for, invested to the tops of broken hearts, we filled with vexing toasts of angst.

Meaningless silence now empties the room and finally, nothing. Words in their senseless intent, could be no better as they are as nothing. And we fill this place, this space with our old and dead misdeeds and clearly it is preferred, temporarily to another kind of love that lives in the newness of olden dead. But what I mean to say is that this sweet room belongs to the words from then. And now, the now is new and belongs elsewhere in a blue and golden view.

Again, let's love this death, empty broken bodies of so much offered into nothing. All the profound and glorious importance gathered into the folly of irrelevance makes for the most ultimate joke to tell on each other. so let's us laugh as we have equalled out to even. Turn to the right, there is blue and golden view. We are just the same and better for it.