Metamorphosis lost

I caught his eye
he wore a sophistication; hands clasping a copy of Milton swimming before him
and a sly smile

I took my seat opposite, picked out
my copy of Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis
and waited to see if he could tolerate my locust breath over pages
and my hesitant, twitching hands. I glanced up from my fate
to watch his facial features calm and soar with the journey of Eden;
all indications of
an inner falling

I longed to ask him
'What does paradise feel like?'
but somehow I felt like I had already held it, held it in
my ugly hands, and my experience was like
all good prose
that no one understands.
I knew it in his eyes as he confronted bliss
and the fall.

The hours dropped into a time
when you shouldn't strain your eyes. He did not look at me
but let his fingers trail across the cover into his disappearance.
Paradise Lost.

I picked up the volume of messages
written by a different age, a different soul;
but it made no sense to me
alone.
Words were just
words. It was he who granted them animation.
I sat back and watched a fly
walk slowly across the table.