A small space to portray, express, and repurpose.
Thomas Amburn
living in New York
surgery resident at NYU
writings are prose/poetry
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My world is – dandelion flower fields under a bed, moonlight rippling on bath water, a midcentury modern horror, a forgotten goldmine covered in newspapers, a jeweled beaded necklace circumscribing misguided awareness, a surreal landscape crawling into life, with a lemon studded whimsical smile and wondering multicolored galaxial eyes – disfigured.
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Red vespa and frozen hands, late day breezes and later day freezes, I find myself walking river to river, glimmers of ripples and a drop of condensation, cool but unrefreshed, refreshed but never cool, I see myself seduced by the color blue, as if not a shade of one bored of, thinking it hides so…
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Unclear skies, unclearer veils,separating heartbeats from heartstops, a crossway of uneven peers, something so thinthat a scissor can cut without a close.I can extend hands and elbows through, the melting of the dead and the undead, I forget what my existence really is,something not well-defined by a pulse.
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There should be a word for being with someone you do not trust. The near magic knowledge you have, like a déjà vu, that underneath some thin cover, there is a lie, some sort of already-known but unsaid betrayal. What is that word, that acceptance of untrust spent together.
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After a year, I was exhausted of myself,Of synthetic hellos and light back patting hugs,Venomous compliments and backwards tongues.Come what may but I walked away,Walked into a solitude that hid behind treesLingered under beds with beady eyes.I entered into it knowing that this is its time,That separation and anxiety don’t have to be linked.I can…
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