i’ll be seeing you

A still from the 2019 film <n>Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark</n>.

I made you a room in the back of my mind.

I wallpapered it in photographs that never existed,
furnished it with all the soft things you never said.

The door has no lock.

The room grows. Some days it swallows
the kitchen, the bedroom, the rational
living room where I entertain my better thoughts.
Some days it shrinks to a crawlspace
and I have to crouch to enter, my spine
remembering the shape of making myself small.

You are not here. You have never been here.

Still, I dust the surfaces. I open the window
to let out the air that tastes like your name.
I rearrange the furniture of you,
the chair where you didn’t sit, the bed
we didn’t unmake, the table set for a meal
that went cold in the hypothetical.

The room is perfect.
The room is a tomb.
The room is a womb I cannot be born from.

Outside, the real world continues its crude business:
bills, coffee, the neighbor’s dog, noon.
But I return here, again and again,
to this architecture of absence,
this shrine to the god of Not Quite,
tending the garden of what-if and never-was,
watering it with the particular violence
of hope.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Boyle Family - Nothing is more radical than the facts - Exhibitions

Dusty Springfield / Windmills Of Your Mind

Feb 23, 2025 - Traces - Symptoms - Signals - Evidence.

Publications:
http://offenhuber.net/docs/offenhuber_telhan.pdf
https://offenhuber.net/docs/kuleshov.pdf. See more ideas about visualisation, installation street art, conversation art.

<n>Villa D</n> in Morocco, designed by <n>Studio KO</n>. Photo by <n>danglasser</n>.

I carry you in my pocket
like a stone worn smooth
by too much handling,
like a photograph
folded until the creases
are more real than the face.

You live in the pause
before I speak your name
to the empty room
that’s learned to listen
like a good dog
waiting for a command
that never comes.

I keep you
in the only place that matters.
Here, where you are always
exactly as you were:
laughing at my terrible jokes
and reminding me
that some things
are too important
to let go of,
even when they’re gone.

<n>Soul of Science</n> by artist <n>Daniel Martin Diaz</n>.

An excerpt from the poem <n>For M</n> by <n>Mikko Harvey</n>, from the 2022 book <n>Let the World Have You</n>.