This sofa is the color of complacency.

The room is the temperature of failure.

Your eyes speak volumes of empty white pages

Books on the shelf, by the hundreds, screaming through sealed mouths

Your hands fold themselves in a secret

How can I understand you when you won’t talk?

How can I make it rain when you keep oxygen imprisoned in a glass jar?

How can I love you when love is made of truth, and you take the Fifth Amendment?

You simply stopped, like a period stopping my sentence.

Like an unsubscribe request-

Unable to Forward, No One Lives Here, Cease and Desist.

I am broken by your inability to finish this line

I am silenced by your silence

I speak into a glass room where even the sun needs a password to enter,

And that password is buried

Under a nondescript expression

An invisible cloak of pretense,

A hundred miles from civilization

Inside emptiness

At the bottom

Of the world.

Lane Eddington

Copyright 2017

elisabeth donaldson