Organic electronic sounds
reverberate throughout
this closed up room,
and I am swathed
in crisp white sheets
and indigo delirium.

The sun slips in and out
between the leaves
holding their breath
outside my window,
and I inhale
air that is heavy
with lost words
and melancholia.

The walls are grey here
and they call for sleep
and great cerulean silences,
things that might heal.
But old lovers keep on
sending messages
like Morse code
and new lovers
cut their teeth on
my collarbones,
smiling at the novelty
of a pretty face and
a sick mind.