Guest House

A moth flies out of my ear. I forgot to turn the porch light in my head off again, or maybe I’m always hoping that someone comes home to me. Consider the flight plan of a moth: flitting up and down and left and down, then nibbling on a coat, then landing on an ancient rock only to be eaten by a cat. I don’t want unity, I want certainty. To be kissed by whatever made me ask the stars if I can borrow a cup of light years, if they wish upon themselves, and is it sorrow or joy why the universe is expanding? You and your bad habits, you and your needle and booze and seclusion and suicide notes are a package deal according to the brochure. Same for me. I think of atoms dancing their jigs eternally and how it only allows one conclusion: matter is happy. Or at least active. Maybe my shadow has a face that it only shows the ground. I wish I had two hands to hold everything and two more to hold everything I drop. Come home, wherever you are. I have coffee somewhere, and this house is haunted by untold confessions and rose petals left intact where they fell. I haven’t even dusted the dust that has fallen on the dust of me. I know, the place is a mess, but a home is also a biography. Just ask the sun.

Note

Inspired by All of Us Strangers (2023), directed by Andrew Haigh.