lying half-awake in the
long bales of sunlight
rolling in through the windows
(these are the days when I can
feel my heart far more than
my hands)
in grey dawn light beginning new
chapters in both leaves and life,
we exist in a vacuum.

the love i have for you is 22 years old
surrounded by cross beams and lintels
windows that only open for cigarette smoke
beating breathing choking
on pine scented candles and
coconut body wash
i see you in every seventh mirror,
every sodden cloud
your ghost fingers tracing autumnal
images in the grey statuesque ivory of my thighs.

leaves fall and I realize
I measure time in blank stares and hair cuts and
how many days I will wait to wash that towel
since you last used it.