It’s Tuesday, I think
Glass windows share few stories
In grey. The sun hasn’t found
An opening
Between my blinds
In days
***** dishes hardly inhabit
The sink. I wash them every chance
I get. It feels good to know
What to do
With my hands

It’s new day, I think
Curtains drape
In heavy embrace. I wonder
What warmth lurks behind them
That can’t be found
In my drink. Fluids slosh
And swell
In ambers beneath my skin
I wring my wrists of goodbyes
So bereft. It feels good to know
What to do
With my hands