and chips in your fingernail polish.
The plant by the window is wilting.
You have a chapped smile and wistful eyes:
they dart between stipple constellations
and the wrinkles in your fingers.
Light spills through cracks in the door
while smoke billows out to the street.
Somewhere, dogs are barking.
Balancing a dull pencil over crinkled paper,
you begin to write about some bliss state
far away from here.