The long cold and acidic orange, the great identity of these winter mornings, a table and ten years away from you. All of it a sleep, starting as something and ending another, one sad retaliation after another. Bits of peel and crust and the leftover cereal, the grounds separating in the bottom of my mug. I could try to open it, the door, the beautiful door, but I fancy myself a Schrödinger. She could ask me, she could try, but something tells me she has already, that perhaps she's been trying all this time. Dark purple, sunken eyes, blinks as slow as fresh dripping honey, and suddenly it hits me I'm the only one who's slept.
No comments:
Post a Comment