tribute (29th of may)

It all goes slow-mo. I don't know why I'm crying, am I suspended in Gaffa

The place called in-between the couch and the wall, under the carpet, a whole book of pages pressed in-between these walls. Live with the mice I don't know to look out for. We scurry under bitten wooden stool legs, scratch our short nails over the parquet, this is the underline for a melody, this is the linen tablecloth held down by silver spoons and I can smell the food coming carried on hands with blisters from stirring the soup, a scent that hangs in the air like a white flag, it will be warm. 

 I am all out, the candles' smoke filled the room with the atmosphere for something hidden to come out of the lurking, the lighter wood to reveal from under the carpet. this is where you started.