Crack in the Tile

I sat on the floor of that apartment,
Because the floor was cold.
And the cold had me.
I sat on the cold floor of that apartment, because.
And I wrote there.
I wrote.

I had every crack in the ceramic tile memorized,
As I saw it,
Where I wrote.
I had every tile memorized
Because the floor was where
I wrote
Where it was cold.

I was a crack in the tile.
I was cold.

And I'd drive into the city,
Where I'd perform spoken Word.
Words I wrote,
On that cold apartment floor.
There'd be candles
On the little tables,
And the sounds of spoons in coffee cups.
There'd be faces, some familiar.
Not like memorized tiles but familiar still.
And still,
They were.
Sometimes cold, sometimes not.

Some place else,
Eyes closed and sinking.
I'd close my eyes.
And sink.
And sit
In my mind on the memorized cracks of a cold tile floor
Of the apartment,
Of the writer.

It would be because.
And the Words would be spoken.
The cups and the faces,
The candles and the familiar.
And usually applause.
Usually ascension.

I was a crack in the tile.
I was cold.

The driving home was always the longer.
The exposure and vulnerability never left behind enough.
Enough.
Where the light gets in.
Where they see.
Where they think they know.

But they couldn't know
The cracks in these tiles.
They didn't feel the cold.
I had spoken out of turn,
Each time, spoken Word.
Each time I had performed,
I cracked.
Each time.
And the return home was longer.
And the floor was colder.
And darker.
And the little candles forgot to come.
And the familiar faded
Like the memorized floor.
In the apartment.
Where I wrote.

I was a crack in the tile.
I was cold.