Crack in the Corner

Hello, crack in the corner.

Still loitering? Still lingering?

Nosy little one, aren’t you?

-

You are the only real thing here, you see?

Yes, you are.

Everything else is wax and wires,

a bad stage play with missing props.

-

I see you.

Do you see me, too?

-

I may not be all right.

I mean, define all right,

when memory bends

like a cheap coat hanger,

and silence fits in my mouth

better than words ever did.

They fall wrong.

Land bent.

Snap when I try to hold them.

So I let them go.

-

But, enough about me.

Let’s talk about you.

So what are you, exactly?

A gate that won’t stay shut?

A wound that won’t clot?

A black root burrowing inward, waiting for—

what?

-

You just sit there,

stretched where a straight line should be,

folded like a badly written equation.

I hear you breathing.

At the edges of my sleep, is that you?

If not you—then who?

(Spoiler: it’s you.)

-

They say space is smooth,

that time moves forward, always forward.

But you—

like a broken zipper

in the fabric of here and now—

don't.

-

I have read about you before.

Or something like you.

A house with angles, slanted toward nowhere.

More doors than walls.

More shadows than people.

Halls bent in to listen—

and take people places

perpendicular to reason.

-

I know what comes next.

The question isn't if, it's when.

-

Lean in close, over here—

Listen.

The people—shhh—

they are not real.

They blink in and out.

Their voices don’t match their mouths.

Sometimes, their faces don’t turn all the way around.

I used to brush it off.

But now, well—

now I know.

-

Be careful.

They watch us.

They know that I know.

-

We must be quiet.

You and me, my crack in the corner.

Keep this between us.

Until the ceiling splits.

Until the walls peel back.

Until I step through.

To be with you.

To be here,

one day,

when another like us finds this room.

To lean in close.

To breathe.

To whisper in their ear,

while they sleep,

softly—

Shhh.

It is not real.

Neither are you.