6.17.2015

I sit on my fire escape
in the void
between apartment blocks.

You are in my ear,
on the phone.
There’s nothing left to say, so you play your guitar.

It is cold and raining. Two jumpers,
shoes not quite on,
a blanket wrapped tight around my body.

You are in the hallway of your share house, between rooms.
The echo makes it better, you say.

The neighbour’s towels hang wet at their backdoors
but no one comes out
to rescue them.

No one likes to sit in this void; they only pass through
to get to the bins.

I smoke along to you and your strums
and your rhythm.
I take deep drags

as you hit the strings.

I light matches and throw them into the wet.
The rain gets heavier
as you get louder.

There are bars all around me. On the windows,
the doors,
the railings.

Wires held together with cable ties and pipes fastened to the walls.

I don’t need them to hold me together. I don’t need bars to keep me in.

I don’t need a rusted wire fence on my concrete stairs.

Take them down.
Cut the ties.
Let the pipes fall.
No one wants to break in.

I ash into the puddles
and add to the mess.
The water from the sky is clean until it hits me.

The gutters overflow
and the puddles swell
and turn into rivers, into oceans.

They pass under me
and there’s no way of going back inside.

I wrap the blanket around me, tighter still,
and stare at the bricks of the wall, wondering if they’ll fall too.

I hear the final notes of your song and I don’t want you to stop.
I want you to keep playing.
I want to keep listening.

I want to rescue the matches and help the gutter
because it’s trying so hard.

I am surrounded by bars of music,
of metal,

keeping me in,
keeping me out, keeping me in this void

between apartment blocks, between rooms,
between plumes of smoke in the wet air,

under the damp towels and the drips,
the wet wires
and the falling bricks.

We are on our way to the bins.

Katie FOUND

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