The Puddle

Motion Sickness

A small screen signaled the end of my comfort, And all my desires are doomed from here on out. If only I could hide under the ceramics, And spend my days in simulated safety… But I never can.

My head spins, and so do the wheels. The instability twists up my throat, And my fingers reach to roll down the windows. I think about our time in the terrace, When all was made clear - “yes, this is one of those endings”; Smaller scale, but similar to now.

Close out all the openings, Lest the bolts hanging from the clouds sneak in. I have to admit, this was never in the plans. Never have I ever planned the world to break The meager myth of manageability That I fooled myself with.

- Neil Lencio

The puddle

You offered to walk me home, but i had neither consent nor conversation.

we passed by a puddle - you made it sound so deep you pushed me back, and my feet felt the concrete. beyond my silence, i wanted to ask “why not just rub your teeth against someone who truly wanted their life to be ruined?” and not hold the hand of someone who never wanted to wait by your door like a child coated in dirt? and yet there I was, wiping my face with my sleeve, waiting outside, waiting for attention, waiting for directions. and when all’s dead and done: we never should’ve met i’ll be looking from afar, observing from the outside there are tears in your window, and smoke signals from the chimney and i’ll be both happy and sorry, i left you like that.

- Neil Lencio