Curious

I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Are there any openings here for a voyeur? NO!

I am the oil spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. Falling forward towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your conversations. I place an ear against the rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is too much fluid around the brain. Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour.

I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon angles I couldn’t see.

You see… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing. I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage. Here we go again.