somewhere in december

i awake to find us with the sun

in our mouths

coagulating like yolk. our bodies

folded into jilted corners, eyes

still papered with a dream

grown hazy by morning.

 

you angle yourself for some light,

propping your head up against mottled

wallpaper swirls, each arabesque

gliding ghost-like in a film

of ungreeting strangers.

 

the city outside writhes

like the back of a lawless viper;

the windows engulf us

in borderless white. it is

so bright the coffee trickles

down your chin like mercury.

so bright words are put to

shame, scattering under furniture

like pearls

in this winter room

where memory and glass

sweep our spaces.