Happenings 7.0

I am motioning at the walls again,
kissing my own hands again,
fingers wet and watery legs
just to believe in this disease again.

I am talking to the house again,
its windows, floors and doors again,
half-living and half-believing in paraphernalia
like a shifty tarot reader,
ensconced in blurred magic,
amnesia to some hyper-reality.

For all intents and purposes,
lost.

I am in horror with myself again,
blaming the blur in the mirror again,
an imperfect stranger once more,
imposter in a doppelganger's clothes. 
I am cleaning what is thoroughly clean again,
watching planets spin from the windows again,
playing host to the ghost
in the hotel that has become my home,
for the shadows that so nearly live
just outside the dark.

I am a shorthand draft of my own future again,
a simple standard of my own narcissism again,
the embodiment of the enactment
of dangerous, darkened solitude. 
You have all abandoned me to absolution,
tossed me to high seas that swell and stir and
my delusion is the wind that carries me on,
farther from shore, kissed, blessed by the residue of spray
just like scattered confetti on a wedding day.

You are burning the roads I come to find you by.

I am alone, happening, and the sky is wet
but the ground is dry.