Presence Devoid of Visibility

An empty apartment speaks a single story. Telling the unknown life. I am greeted by this, an unexpected swallowing of sight, not more. The invisible makes me insecure. Absence provokes present certainty of uncertainty collapsing into conscious. Distilling out knowledge, I appear blank on a page of nothingness, no ink to invent meaning. Devoid of visibility obscures my demeanor. It is my mind becoming dense, not eye. Try to see and I think, just harder. This distraction disturbs my dynamic development. I laugh less in result. Psychic phenomenon, which is me. Reaction is I have not a thing to lean on. I tilt my head instead, restless for reason, in the white wash with no feeling. Waiting for anything to come and let me be less alone. He does, appear, after moments. From the back room of a dream. My eyes were not closed for that door to be seen. Yet I hoped for something more than these walls. Insisted there was something other than them and me. And there is, for now becomes him and I. Thoughts thinking less, less of them, lessened having him. He comes carrying flowers. Lending lilac light to the latex walls. Without him would still be space spreading ineffectually. Thanking their coming together, but why have these been brought? I point at flower heads, disproportional to their body stems. I want to have them kempt. I did not know men bought themselves thought. I hadn’t. It was she, a distance I try to point back to. He is fisting a once gift grown trivial through time. Dead, still dying, until death exists. As if soaked in a bath, they wrinkle. Familiar folds behind the face he wears which is not his. Pretending to be flexible to please me into a chanceless future. But I have seen how his penis curves. Still bent by his past. Petals fall and he, too, burying his face on the aisle he projects. A long carpet of white light brilliance. Having been laid behind him and unfolding for future. Self an impossible imitation of an illusive image from moment’s memory with flower girl. As if time has not aged, and he too. I watch him uselessly kneeling. A gesture toward absent beauty. He takes droppings to tongue and licks. Tasting, belief that thick salvia is all one needs to stick absence and presence, fragment and entirety, the gesture and the feeling back to being one. I am invisible in this apartment he wants back empty of others. I know, as I see his face drip sweat and salvia. Trying to immortalize an image disintegrating within his eye. In this harsh visibility, I am of no shape to be here, no color in face to fake not caring. I exit his unknown life and he sees but one other color as I go. Blackness, catching my back, his blank mind blinded.