Morta Belli & Fig

you notice it too late

the street is wrong

the time is wrong

layers of paint

names you don’t know

—

shops that should be there

aren’t

—

no one looks at you

not really

except the glass

—

“Morta Belli & Fig.”

gilded lettering

faded but careful

like it has been repainted

over itself

again

and again

—

you read it twice

the second time slower

something about it

almost rearranges

you don’t follow that thought

—

here

untouched

like it refused to follow everything else

into ruin

—

you tell yourself it’s always been like this

you say it casually

like a lie you’ve practiced

the city decays

kids take over

that’s normal

but they don’t touch this place

not even by accident

their noise bends around it

—

inside

chairs wait

arranged...

no... positioned

as if someone just left

and will be right back

—

that phone number... you called once

you remember that

or you think you do

you let it ring

something answered

or you think they did

not a voice

sound of weight shifting

like furniture adjusting itself

to listen

—

you keep coming back

there’s a chaise

curved like surrender

indentation in the velvet

deep

familiar

—

the arms of a chair

worn smooth

by time

no... by repetition

—

you start noticing things

how you sit

how long you stay

how your hands press down

testing

as if the world that should hold you

more precisely

fails by a margin

—

you begin to dream

you’re inside

a peculiar placement

a chair that fits perfectly

adjusts even

like it knows

the lay of you

—

you wake up sore

hips

spine

like restrained in one position

for too long

—

the shop has a rhythm

one could call breath

but really... pressure

of memory repeating

over

and over

—

one night

the reflection moves first

your shoulder dips

your head tilts

curious

—

Morta Belli & Fig.

—

you don’t step back

of course you don’t

instead... closer

hand to glass

warm

occupied

—

and then

it opens

no... not the door

it

—

the street snaps into place

years collapse

you see

the layers

the absences

the fact no one your age is left

no one who would remember

you

—

you try to recall

anything recent

it slips

like dialogue parroted

without meaning

—

you watch yourself

moving

breathing

albeit badly

—

inside

your chair

the exact curve

the worn arms

the imprint

perfect

—

were you ever outside?

truly... were you?

is the echo

you remember

the part that didn’t stay?

—

inside

still

complete

it holds

it waits

until you realise

you never left

while everything else did

—

and as soon as you do

the glass shows nothing

the depth of nothing

and the quiet certainty

that something inside

remembers you

more accurately

than you ever did.

—