Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

09. esemplastic

i'm glad for simplest things,

i'm saddened by oddest parts:

a toothbrush, next to mine;

hair clogging the tub's drain;

kettle boiling in the corner;

burnt slices of bread mixing in age-old salad;

odour of foreign sweat and breath, steeping into the comforters, the pillows;

fingerprints on blurry mirrors;

discarded knife and spoon and bowl, piling in the sink;

cinder and sake in pretty smoky brown and pink bottles nestling at the back of the fridge;

metal rings and bracelets and earrings clinking;

aftershave tasting like toothpaste on the tip of my tongue;

phone numbers i called once a week but never bother to memorize;

dust settling on windowsills and desktops;

books crack opened for months, years, remaining unread;

gentle curve of a nape, a wrist over the kitchen counter in hazy afternoons;

golden sunshine sprawling on emptying moving cardboard boxes;

songs i used to hate and still hate, creaking under the floorboards;

little plants crippling under their own mass and soggy roots;

single socks searching for their counterparts;

a hand grasping across my neck, collarbone;

a warmer weight on the other side of the bed;

a calf slung across my hips;

a voice, slurring in the lucid darkness;

a diatribe against solitude.

⸻

esemplastic: the ability to shape diverse elements or concepts into a unified whole

prompt: we're not alone