Everyday, without fail,
I'd find myself in this space,
At the end of the living room.
Just big enough for one of me
To lie sideways, and another me
To sit with his back to the railing,
And his feet right up against the doors.
I'd find myself taking a nap there,
On afternoons that render
My cozy bed and blanket suffocating,
And even if sleep kept itself
At an arm's length away,
The warmth of the sun at its height
Made me think less of how
It's not just sleep that put a distance
Between itself and me.
Every now and then,
I'd find myself curled up,
On the aging mattress lying there
On the floor, left behind by somebody.
Sometimes, I have my phone with me,
As I keep looking away from matters
That are right up in my face.
There are less fortunate days,
When my phone's a few feet away,
And the space between it and I
Is home to all my baggage
That's begun to rot and smell over the years.
Between the time I had my last meal,
And when the day has no more surprises to reveal,
I'd find myself propped up there.
Some nights, I'd sit and strum
An off-key guitar that's missing a string,
Taking breaks to light a cig or two.
It could be the nicotine, it could be my delusions,
But sometimes I feel I've become
Just a little better,
Though I know that's just my way
Of reminding oneself,
That things hopefully get better over time.
This little area has seen a fair bit
Of burnt butts and paper planes,
Of drunk delirium and sober concerns,
Of an abundance of persons,
And the lack of it all -
It's the balcony, it couldn't be
A space of my own, you know?
Even so, in the wee hours
Where insomnia flirts with dissociation,
When my 'everyone' exists but in person,
And I crave for a shoulder to rest on,
This place saves me.
Not quite in the heroic sense
Of culling dragons and scaling towers,
But, in a simpler twisted way,
Wrapping some vines around my ankles,
To keep me from seeing what's over the edge,
Yet letting me know, in it's own way,
That I'm probably not alone.
