I ripped the transient drapes off my window and used them to cover you laying there, all quiet and dead.
You had your hands cradled about your mouth, as if in some prayer. Right then I could make this want a bubble that floated and exploded, like fire, and woke you up, stunted you from some rich dream and reminded you of where we were. And who was here with you.
The windows were open enough for only the pale thin lines of smoke to sneak out; to New York or San Francisco or some other place where the phone might ring (might not).
Your shiver was a brief sign of weakness; one that followed that smoke out the window; and like it made you cough a little. I closed both windows.
I smoked quietly and tapped on the black keyboard, listened to music to break the air. Maybe wake you up long enough to see the situation, embrace this possibility. Make the same shapes as I would draw on you right now. With a sharpie and a shoulder available and willing.
I was nearly out, eyes rolling, like a quarter horse at the end of a hard full mile. I wished I had a guitar and could play, imagined myself rocking back and forth in the black chair. Echoing myself like rocks of cement uncovered walls; like these, temporary feelings and songs that would only live as long as that woman downstairs, so desperate for some thing she screams.
