Floor Plan 17

by

Jéanpaul Ferro

 

 

I wanted XXX XX XXX
but I didn’t think;
what I meant to say was: ―orbits―
with
someone else,
who knew everything
while the rest of me had somehow
forgotten everything else I had ever known,

I forgot―
my place in the story,
my place in the Kingdom,
my way with your fingers;

In your mouth,
I could untie words,
words only you knew how to say,
so I said so little,
to get a rise out of you,
to cheat on you, to tease you,
to enthrall you, to inflict pain.

But I failed. And you failed too. We both failed.

In all our days: “I told you.” “You told me.”
This was something silent.

We ended up in the glass elevator;
going up to the 17th floor.
I pinned you against the wall,
You slipped your fingers into my mouth,
trying to untangle all those years,
all those years of so many words―

absent         astray
adrift          at sea                 cast away
disappeared
disoriented        forfeit        forfeited,
gone   gone astray   hidden   invisible   irrecoverable
irretrievable     irrevocable        kiss goodbye
lacking  minus  mislaid  misplaced  missed
obscured                                         off-course
off-track  strayed  unredeemed  vanished  wandering
wayward                                                  without







 


Jéanpaul Ferro is a poet, freelance writer, and novelist. His work has previously appeared in Portland Monthly, Hawaii Review, Newport Review, The Plaza, Mid-South Review, Biblioteka Alexandria, and The Rose & Thorn. His work has also been featured in The Plaza's masterpiece series and Votobia's Anthology of America's Writers. He currently resides in Providence, Rhode Island.

 

 

 

 

 

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