by Alex Stolis
An October burial: a sun, bottled between
two clouds, there is quiet, there is a still
room, there is incidental music roaming
down the hall. You change your clothes,
close the windows. I watch, hat in hand
foot out the door. Don’t tempt fate. Turn
off the lights. Fuck me, make me a drink.
Let the laundry dry on the ledge. I’m no
longer afraid of heights. You ghost your
way through the day; mechanical, black
and white. This isn’t how the movie ends.
Coffee maker drips awake, telephone buzz;
winter is a shard of glass away. Your dress
is wet. I am idle, too far away to remember
clearly. Too close to fake it. We are a push
away from yearning. One more kiss, then
one more, finally another. Follow this vague
idea. We’re home free. Ready to dream stories
of tin stars, rope ladders and ordinary days.
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