'A Poem, And Monday's Narrative'

The only space which encapsulates - does not give definition or distinction;
It is but a space beside the once marred roots of alveoli.
When September was the last; I told you.
I told you - on a night as cold as any; when streetlights ochre dimly lit my way past graves and graces. And it seized you.
By the sight of a photograph within a world intangible I apprehended.
By the words which you claimed were delusions I fell.
By a song, sung to a sad melody I imagined.
By the song of your voice, the only space which encapsulates but does not give definition or distinction - pulsated fiercely..
And that was all, I said, that was all.

I went to work today feeling the gravity of the past, short weekend (it was possible that I didn't sleep as much, compared to longer weekends; I have a tendency to bum-rush the cheaper weekend broadband, sometimes to the extent of self-damage rather than recreation. Well, it depends on how you see it. *shrugs*). Work today, as usual, was conducted in the utmost obliviousness to time; well, more oblivious than the latter part of last week, due to unforseen issues cropping up to spice up my cubicle-life. I can only wish that in the next few days, I am able to provide a further elaboration of things and say, "..but even so, it only proved to be as trivial as the Thursday's Bloop incident." And laugh it off, like it was a fun thing to go through, just to tell my child(ren) [?].

I am having very high hopes for the weekend.

(" , )