Doors unlock,
the "OPEN" sign
blinks every now and
then: It has its
bouts of laziness.

I'm reminded of myself.

A feast fills your nostrils -
meat, bread, and other things.

Your stomach warns not to mock it.

The tables shine
as much as possible.
(They wish they were
more attractive).

But here,
where purple lights
match plants beneath:

You are a prisoner.

And I come with keys,
hoping to hand them, secretly,
to you;

wondering how many
of these billionths
hear the frenzy that is tables,
screaming to be cleaned.

Wondering if the noise
or smell of dead meat
has stung their senses
as it does yours.

I wish time wasn't
a line
so I could take
the pieces and make blocks
as I see fit;

throw away the fillers
I use to preserve
sanity

when I'm not with you.

Then,
always you'd be here,
keeping life's sharp edges
rounded.

Kind of like these windows . . .