I.
We sank like planks into my mattress
And drifted like sticks to opposite ends.
A termite clung to the ceiling,
Persistent in its attempt to tap an exhausted resource
“No wood left. You’re fat and greedy and you ate it all.”
“I’m what?” you muttered
“The wood doesn’t replenish itself. You ate it and now it’s gone.”
The hollow ceiling seemed to ascend,
And the glutinous termite, its belly filled with wood chips,
squirmed, trying to keep hold.
When it fell, it fell down straight and slow.
It dropped, like a pebble, guided by the weight of its stomach,
Onto the white sheet between us,
And then like an ink stain with legs, it crawled toward my open hand.
I closed in on it, feeling its legs separate from its body as I crushed it to death.
“Goodbye” I said.
“Goodbye”, you said and stumbled out the door.