empathizing with inanimate objects
I have a fear of putting on lids, caps, tops.
The inside needing to breathe, stir
to be infused with fresh new somethings
and I could just be too good for such things.
Call me selectively attentive or misunderstand me as lazy a pathological disinclination, a nature bottled up,
A problem not because things eventually,
but because, I don't mind that they do.
Three cheap thrills and a drop later,
I feel their shame
and finally their vengeance as they spill all over my
I see in them a reflection of the disgruntled faces I neglected to cover over the years,
the hands that grew cold
the stains that never dried
the addiction to needing more air.
it turns out things need closure.
Say I were a bottle, cap or no cap?
Cap. Of course.
some nights resting by my feet
waiting, perhaps, for that special someone to tuck me into bed.
A container fearing containment
That is she, that jar of miracle cream
retaining the right to suddenly burst
defy the restriction
throw off it's affliction
the perfect touch
the owner of content
always respecting of form,
caressing the face but letting her roam.