The gibbous moon low on the eastern horizon – 3 hours of sleep if I leave now – it feels both useless and imperative.
I know my fingernails have pushed soft red arcs behind your knee, a temporary mark.
The digital clock on the bookshelf flips to a double zero, it should mean change. It should mean buttons and laces.
Salami and Brie cheese are pretentious remainders on the floor, but we like to pretend.
Sand goes unnoticed under your windowsill sand dollars.
I wish I could grow a pearl, not a person, (not yet) but a sphere of bone colored promise.
Life has slotted me for achievement, but here I can barely remember my name.
Relief is sometimes its own misnomer, a cancelled bill you never opened, a free day at the museum you stumbled into, a night you stay up to watch the moon set because finally in the eyes of someone who sees you, your heart is reset.
I’d let my i-phone spiral for hours if it meant I could stay. My forehead rested on your neck is another spinning wheel of death.