A tiny account of terrible things

We're sitting here in this white-walled room
Staring at the perfect
Flatness, the cracks in our soft fleshy palms
The invisible madness in these blue spiderweb veins as one
Eye twitches, and I close both mine for the thrill
And for the darkness,
Struggling to hear the quiet
Rumblings of our distant insides, the beating
Redness in our riverruns
Fingers on the smooth metal body of a gun
Fingers scrabbling at the floor as I try and try,
Squinting at the possible predictable
Patterns of this perfectly crafted
Perfectly incomprehensible parallel universe
Drifting close, too close to the one in our heads,
As if we'd prefer inhabiting this one instead and well
A moment passes, the flicker of the clock so I say
"Are you still there?" and eyes closed, you are
For a moment, a white-spotted full-color film photograph on the floor,
Fingers brushing down arms, eyes slanted and smiling
Sunshine on leaves and concrete, cloth and written words softly
Underlined by traces of graphite. And quietly, now,
You are a question, clear like the end
Of some tunnel being hurtled through, plain
As pain when it jolts through that well-guarded part
That forgets the terrain, the hundred-fold maps that tell
Tales of weary nights and eyes and trifles and truly,
Upon opening eyes to this white-walled world one sees
Everything arranged in a different way. But what
To say except, hey, apparently, apparently 
It is time to step out of this place and find one more
Thing, something else that can be held close
To the light, so tiny, not as terrible--it gets better from here, darling.
Wonderfully better, incomprehensibly better. 

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