If Things Could Talk

By Rishan Roy

If things could talk, and objects wore faces, 

Instead of scratches, 

I might have duct taped the overworked AC vent,

Hanging into oblivion

Perched beyond sight into my confession

Or how some days,

I feel like loose change, 

Exchanging touches and embraces,

Only to never return home, to the 

Sound of memories, the apostoles of touch, 

Or the dry comfort of routine.

Most times though, I become the lone outline

Of the confession box

Carrying grief and shame in synchronity,

Becoming the words like they are

Far removed from me – 

The shape of dreams, 

Sitting like a nimbus cloud;

Begrudging the water-wombed demigod;

Nostalgia sits like a stack of barefoot pencils,

I could also ask you if

Everyone feels like discarded graphite,

After dusk,

Only breathing half-life to its creations,

Swirling lines hazed into oblivion.

If things could talk and objects wore faces

Instead of scratches,

The walls of my home could

Write bestselling novels, on why walls

Shouldn’t talk or why people don’t, or

Why you shouldn’t

Vacuum the underside of the carpet.

By Rishan Roy