the wet weight of a Tuesday
presses against the back of my skull
where the salt collects in ridges.
I am counting the pulses in my thumb,
one for every time the window
vibrates from a truck I cannot see.
my teeth feel too large for my gums
and the copper taste of a penny
is stuck under my tongue,
insistent and metallic.
there is a pigeon on the ledge
with one clouded eye staring
at the way my knuckles turn white
when I grip a glass of lukewarm water.
the clock isn't ticking,
it is just moving forward
without asking for permission.
I forgot the name of the person
who used to sleep on this side of the bed
so I am breathing into the empty space
until my lungs feel heavy with old air.
the ceiling has a crack shaped
exactly the way my thumb feels.