Pounding

I imagined living in a room with no walls, in a room I couldn’t pound, and, tender with myself, I absorbed the nothing of that room, which I also, was, and with no longer the desire to pulverize myself, because it wasn’t my pounding that went away, it just never was, suddenly. This got me thinking things like : I love you, and now that you are here, if you need to you can pound, and you are free to return to yourself if it means, ultimately pounding again, but I couldn’t stop thinking those things, and so, I thought: these thoughts, too, are my pounding, only, pounded different. I cannot stop this pounding, and then, there was your vein falling down in my eye, your sink standing on my hutch, your cat eating pride through my kitchen, your playing my cards, and your wonder crying alone with me outside, your wonder crying in the room with me too, and crying and looking out the window at my room, at your wine without my smile, and the snowy path you follow to get to the front door of my pounding: glass, glass, glass, glass, glass. I am learning to accept myself in pieces.