Attempted offering
There’s a book on the black marble pedestal.
I tried to make you read it.
I begged you to read it.
Not because I was proud of it,
but because it is an explanation.
An explanation I thought you deserved.
Wanted.
And those gold lines that trace up the marble;
those are a map.
They are my veins;
pulse my words,
wind my thoughts.
The whole room smells like grapefruit and mint, and in the
sunlight that shines, you can see the dust particles swirling.
The room was never opened.
The key is still lying on the desk.
Next to it is the letter that’s handwriting is choking.
I guess you never read it.
Never learned about the room.
Never learned how to save.
And I am hunched,
breathing like some animal,
hunted. Haunted.
My whine of warning unheard.
