Our house is empty this weekend.

I watch one of the neighbour boys. Or is it a man. I can't tell, tilting my head to see under the bathroom window. He's obscured by a balcony beam. Eating breakfast. I can't tell what he looks like either; he's facing toward his neighbour.

Well, what I assume is breakfast.

The smell of coconut.

I guess this is the time of day when I feel most alone. Out the window,

cars passing,

people on their way home to love and family and sex.

Seeming a memory of sorts, to me.

Worn into an old rusted frame of what I once was,

only photos to prove it ever happened.

And too, these words, just photocopies that fade with each pass of the light across their surface.

The ink wearing thin. 

Killing the soldiers without mercy.

Knocked back to upright; feet to the sky, and I'm feeling warmer, better, every second.

Nothing can stop my rampage.

I'm leaving them dead in my tracks.

The traffic wears thin as does my lucidity, and my guardian angels tear me away from the shark pit,

neck deep in all that no one can see.

Though I'm wishing this time along, to fall in and come out,

a little less fragile. Or is it a little more.

Caution, not to the wind, but to the fires of hell, I'd say.