Shadow Stabbing [5-22-09]

There's a shadow waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.
It leans against the stairwell wall with one foot crossed over the other,
arms bundled neatly around its chest.
If I stop and watch carefully
I can see its chest gently rise and fall.
It waits with an infinite patience,
occasionally checking to see how its wristwatch is doing:
the big hand has a while to go before it gets to six thirty
but it'll get there before dinner.

In the shadow's jacket pocket there's a paper
and on that paper is a song
the song that's been in my throat for the past month
but has never made it beyond my lips, battered against walls of teeth
and crumpled like a term paper underneath my brain.
I feel so strongly compelled to burst into song
but the firing mechanism is jammed
the words are locked in their trailer
and the melody is on strike.

So I will wait for the shadow at the bottom of the stair
And the shadow will wait for me
with my song in his pocket
and his hands folded across his chest
dozing off on the stairwell wall
because I know and it knows
that shadows make and break no promises
and when I pass it,
I will claw at its form on the wall.
I will dig my fingers into the plaster
and tear and tear and tear away
until its jacket is stained with the blood from my fingertips.
I will scream and howl and rail at the shadow.
Give me my words! those are my words! that is my song!
And I will crumple and beat my fists and soak my sleeves in snot and tears
because a shadow is where light refuses to go
and nothing more.

---

Pnelma's Pen