I sigh at
the thought
of parting
with the red
brick and blue
pen marked
fingers.
The stains on the carpet need
some retouching. The dust mites
will thank us for our small offering.
The lampshade shouldn’t spend
all afternoon whistling.
I can never
get it hot
enough
to warm my
belly
after ice
cream sandwiches.
A handful of minibar bottles
scattered about the mailbox, jellyfish
bodies dragged across five avenue blocks from the elevator to the leafy door.
You ran in, in
here, engine stifling
ill-turning lips. Seismic
spoon activity disrupts
the surface of
the crème brûlée burnt and
bitter, crystals
dwell
between my teeth. Polishing
them with tender
melancholy eddies.
