Black number

I am the black number, limb-weights and all
Flip-flop tired brows—
Old bags of decrepitude beside me
Sipped saliva as flaps of weak-pink trembled
Words, couldn't fill-in-the-blank—

Grey-morphed

(And I did not dare to, couldn't, whisper), the croak 
Of those lungs phlegm-packed cracking air through heat-stilled 
Nights. Cold as fish 
Those beads of sweat funnelled 
Down, irrigated by frowns, lashed
Sight-wards—towards the living 
Room where you (or more distantly, 
He) sat 
In one corner pinned by age. 
And time?

And that time when I walked past you with no utterance
Until you went to bed. I walked out of my casing
Hours later, unheard, and asked Your Other timidly 
Whether you were all right.

Dale Chou
2003-04-29