humdrumtitlesthatdontmakesense

she sits by the window
in silent repose
the minutes crawl by, each dripping second
the static flow of thought
flow frozen, like piercing icicles
cracking through the mind
into the tender flesh of the conscience.

things and thoughts flash
mercilessly
she stands stricken
by the weight of such speed
and the threat of losing such depth over the flatness of time.
the acceleration of emotion and fleeting ghosts of
recent happenings rendering her even more still,
fixated in a wax figurine pose of composure
the quiet eye of a storm.

did she say something amiss?
and while each fresh layer of muse
accumulate, they dull the senses
to numb sore ulcers of wretched guilt
something she shouldn't have said
something he shouldn't have done
something she should have considered;
something other than this negation
than this void.

curiosity and memory breed a longing
to excavate another's mind, to open locked doors
although she does not hold the keys;
no she does not have heart enough
to hold an apology,
which if unmeant, would unfurl and be laid bare
like stripped grave cloths;
empty in its sallow stench of death
no the memories must be preserved,
lest they be marred by the musty trivialities of ritual
polite words meant to be said which hold nothing
and silence prevails- its loud, insolent voice shouting volumes
across the distance.

so icicles stop their creeping
they ought not fracture the pristine, glassy affront
which keeps things together
thought is kept from cracking her placid expression
like shards wrapped in velvet bags
she's holding it together
whatever it takes.

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is there ever a line you cross?
to the other side
that cancels out the former
things cool and fade until they reach an equilibrium
like icecubes in a room or hot coffee losing steam
an equilibrium
that is tasteless and colourless
until you don't feel it anymore
a neutral distance
that loses you a friend?