flop house

sometimes when i feel thin my ring allows itself to swing freely around the whole of my finger. it lies there lively with its own weight engaged in conversation with whatever gravitational pull seems most interesting, and my hand tries unsuccessfully to ignore its awkward and loose ornament. like the half conscious reaction to a fly insistent on landing on one's nose, i can never fully grant my attention to anything but that ring. my house has adopted new characters that hang like molasses to the furniture. the transition was slow. almost undetectable. but now we have become a flop house of sorts. they smoke their cigarettes and curl their fingers around the hair follicles of carpets and beds. those of them not fortunate to share our sleeping spaces crash on couches playing humming video games and swearing that the future is not a thing to be planned. it is barely a thing at all. tattoos and twelve empty packs of djarum blacks adorn the space. they are my ring, twirling like stochastic tops within the boundary conditions and gravitational field of my living room. they need to leave. but more so i need to leave.

there are moments when i love him. like this morning waking up. how he brushed his hair. but he is too selfish for love. or is it i who am too selfish? i stay because anywhere else would be more difficult. i don't know what else i would do. why do they always think we are perfect? isn't it obvious? the phenomenon happens often, so maybe i am a master of disguise. or maybe the human race sees only that narrow band which appeals to it and i operate outside the visible spectrum. i can't decide whether it is me or them that feels thin, convulsing in the ultraviolet of precious private moments. this situation is a compromise between The Right and The Real. I feel as a dandelion seed caught in wind.