The Ground Floor
You’ve been sitting here a while, down on the ground floor.
Sitting and thinking.
Thinking of thoughts of yourself somewhere else.
Thinking of thoughts forgotten under ice.
Thinking of when you could make yourself care.
Thinking of when you had something to share.
Thinking of a body that puts salt into the water put into it.
Thinking of thoughts of yourself.
It’s dusty down here, and poorly lit, and the air gives the feeling that it never intended to be breathed. Slightly cold, slightly dry, and slightly hopeless.
But you’ve been here for a while, down on the ground floor.
You think you were looking for something.
Did you forget? Were you distracted?
Did someone tell you that you belong here?
The floor is cold.
I hate it here, but I can’t leave.