Waiting for my wake up call
with my eyes closed
when I’m already awake
just to see if they remember
I am down here.
The basement floor is empty
aside from this room
in the corner of the back hall
where the lights all flicker
quickly like the sound
you get from playing cards
in bike spokes.
We got back late but the lights were on
bouncing off the puddles in the parking lot
where a gold fish since abandoned now
just swims until the water disappears.
A field of wind turbines waves with
the slow song we both put on
in separate pairs of headphones
keeping everything outside ourselves so quiet.
I am not the kite string or the hand
that’s holding everything together
I am the the wind that’s keeping
everything aloft.
This mattress is so soft, and I don’t want
to do another day the same way
as the last few fucking thousand
I want to dream about the perfect thing
and let the phone just ring
like its an empty room,
a message left for no one.
Teleporting Typewriter 