The Floor

Friends or inanimate objects?

I never knew "things" could be friends.  Actually, I never knew they could be better friends than living. breathing people.  You see the thing is, is that inanimate objects have to understand.  It's all they can do.  Like the floor, for instance. It sits beneath me, hard and sturdy, tasting my salty tears as they fall from my face.  And the floor holds them.  It doesn't throw them away, or stuck them up to a place unknown to the living, do you floor? No, instead the floor holds wet, sloppy tears of loneliness for all to see, even when I'd rather it just soak them up.  Although, that's what friends are supposed to do right?  Tell you the truth even when the truth is the one thing that will set a soul free and then to proceed to lacerate the wings, with which it would use to escape death, from it?  In the floors case, however, everything seems so much more secure and stable, things I've never experienced for long periods of time.  Moving every two days, having two beds, two families, not knowing who would blow next.  The floor.  What a good friend the floor is.  It keeps all of my secrets.  It wouldn't dare let anyone know where I've been, what I've done, what I've seen.  Isn't that right floor? I was only kidding!  I could never harm the thing that holds my thin, fragile body in it's huge hands of opportunities and adventures we call the planet.  The thing that hears my heart shattering within my chest and feels my heart growing heavier and heavier, as if it were taking another form.  The thing that will take me as I am, even when I am long gone and forgotten by worldly people.  The floor.  What a good one at that.