Lilly Clemons

The paper work is in the attic, yet only the clouds know why.

And the sparrow every morning, chirping the same song of minelune. 

The exhausted electronics and heart-heavy, narrow-breathed bones.

Turtle shells like crayola pencils,

buried deep in the drawers of vacuity, in an attic not forgotten but not forgiven. 

A drawer no one uses, no one touches, no one has touched in decades.

They forget that the mailboxes hear everything, but only see one side

Last week they sneezed, left vulnerable as the soul took a trip,

A trip up route deja vu.

‘Just married?’ 

Asks the ludiosis-tic cans who still doubt the tinkles they make, from the night they were used, clanking and clashing around the back of a metallic-bonded body.

Asks the windows who hold memories as deep as the shallow shore, and as shallow as the deepest trench, dug into the ground by the sea; it doesn't matter. It's as if it happened years ago.

Just married?

But no, only for a short while. Nothing serious, just a metallic bonding of bodies 

Just two broken jars, one with lypophrenia, sad like the drops from the cloud-sky plip-plopping into puddles on the ground one by one. Starting and stopping with effortless fluidity. 

Sad like time.

And the other warily unaware with habromania, a shard of glass who delusions themselves through this disposal of strangers with the confidence of a four year old solving algebra. 

The two who didn't want each other, and left to go up or down, or nowhere really,

in this world of beauty.

‘Really an odd pair’, examined the books—now dust. Like sitting a hedgehog and a pain of hardened liquid sand next to each other and expecting them to talk.

The rodent’s lined spines are limp with the salty-savoury sadness of unknown origin, a feeling unforeign.

And the cloudy clear glass painted with the sonderlust of the blood-ridden soul shells that look at the reflecting surface daily, yet are unable to find a connection, since it is after all, a pane of glass. 

Hundreds of pulses pass through this cursed chamber of memories and yet the memories never forget their makers, their first, them who recognised the des vu, who accepted the fate of their lives. And yet, the crayola pencils, the turtle shells, the mail box out on the street a little wobbly on its sand, the nail on the left is broken but it's old enough that it can stand for a century more — they can never forget the first two pulses.