Now you sound more like yourself. I’m stuck in the seventh afternoon between burnt coffee & a migraine. One more heart-stopping hour before I can die by the screen & a frozen pizza. You’re curly & content with never again un-furrowing your brow. It’s trial by combat. It’s an icy collar for the sake of a takeout order. It’s hearing a melody in crashing pots & pans.

Why do you never believe me? Why do you never tell me the truth?

Listen closely, listen well, I love you.

Twenty-four hours have a padlock at their end. Yes, & one lucky keyholder will have the ground removed from beneath her toes. Just one long grip of a pillow with no case & now north is south.

Still the holes in the plaster. Still the wrappers under my bed. Still my hair in your mouth. The walls taste like jasmine & that sour is here to stay.