The Kitchen

Those nights where I can see you, at the corner of my eye- in the recesses where the retina may not reach, but the mind may hold its breath and delve- I find that you have waited for me. You exist only in the shattering of light alongside darkness; the flash of the photographer’s camera, or the death of the night amidst the glory of sunrise. But there in that snap, that time of momentary insanity; I find you, in the kitchen. You sit in obscurity in the darkest corner, eyes tormented from sobbing. I struggle to remember your form precisely: your black figure is wretched and incomprehensible, shaking at the dazzle from the artificial lights. Your pale face seems hysterical against the remaining relics of your make-up; long black marks tear open your cheeks and I bite my lip and try not to laugh. I stretch my arms towards you, but you recede… the light is on, and the fear has departed. But with each returning night you find me again, crawling through my skin with the flick of the light bulb. I turn my head towards you and your image dissolves. With each turn shrouded in the insignificance of blinking, I see you there repeatedly, in the darkness, on the kitchen floor. Sometimes you laugh with me. Sometimes I cry with you.