There's this room
old wooden floors that creak in certain spots unless you're real careful
to tiptoe over the strewn clothes I never got around to hanging up
brick walls with several holes from nailed up paintings I was proud of
a window from floor to ceiling that overlooks the busy city street
that lets all of the winter air in and magnifies the summer sun
and a king sized mattress with the bed sheets half hanging off
you're still half naked, fast asleep under what sheets are left
I walk through and see the typewriter on the floor surrounded by
pages covered in red and black ink from the nights before
boxes of undeveloped film canisters at the foot of that king sized bed
a couple of empty mugs with the tea bag still clung to the bottom;
I hit a creak, you roll onto your back and give me that half dead smile.


I open my eyes