Back in the Hallway (5.20)

I am now sitting in the hallway,
A book under my arm with passages
I keep crossing out and rewriting in the margins.
You walked off to the left, I think.
I already tried the door to my own room.
You’re right, it’s locked.

You think it’s my rules that have caused this
Or that I’ve hidden the key in some deep pocket.
I also want to say fuck these rules
But I’ve got thousands of pages to go.

And listen, I spent two years trying
To weld the correct pattern of teeth
For opening in. I can’t ask for that key back,
It opens a door to a room thick with green
And swift eyes everywhere threatening
And tangled branches, heavy rains,
Erotic flowers giving slow kisses to the canopy.
It opens a door to a small, empty room with two chairs,
A table, a couple of books and a bed, all collecting dust.

It’s true this thing between us is insignificant
Compared to the weight of an urn.
What is living is always insignificant
When compared with death.
It’s a wonder we go on reaching towards
One another’s hands at all, casting shadows
As we stand in silence in different rooms
Looking at different eyes,
Because truly, they are just about the same
Aside from the books found under the beds.

I’m afraid we always eventually find
That our watches beat in slightly different measures,
Cut time in different intervals, so that he says,
“time is running out so must I,” just as she is about to say
“Listen to this passage!” Or, perhaps, vice versa.

You wandered back out into the hall to clear your head,
To knock on other doors, I don’t know exactly.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a bit waiting.
And, yes, then I turned out the light and closed the door.
Now I am sitting in the hallway, a book under my arm
With passages I keep crossing out.