Inside my head is nothing special,

familiar space, you know well —

the kindness, the complaints,

the undone desires to be

something more than her, she, this

(occasionally, nothing at all).

There: I laid it all, threadbare,

upon the stairs, projected;

plastered and unbreakable,

Yet, I broke it, us, the mystery.

Alone while accompanied,

I find myself,

walking imaginary streets,

tiny, insignificant,

searching for memories on riverbanks

in the city built inside.

“Please, don’t go,”

echoes in the empty space

once occupied (or was it?).

I trip over words, unfound,

stumble and fall, over nothing,

searching hallows

for the right way to say,

“I don’t, I haven’t, I won’t!”

Because inside here?

Weaponless, beyond words.

I will never hurt you, I insist—

but, I did. Every word, an inspection

a guilt, a void

of what wasn’t and isn’t.

So, now, I sleep at the base of you,

walk on blistered soles,

while unoccupied echoes

taunt closed eyes.

Looking back and inward:

touchless, bodiless, half-headed,

timeless silhouettes of selves

who love, who care,

who see me laid threadbare

and want for nothing they don’t have.

These howling hallows,

increasingly empty;

still, we can’t look at each other.

Even the gentlest giants ache

with regret and worry;

yet, carry on, split in two,

lids trapping contentment

for as long as it lasts.

—

A poem inspired by this incredible piece of art , the artist and name I didn’t record. Anyone know this piece?

Petite Palais, Paris 🇫🇷