finding it in the corners of the room,
the cushioning between ribs,
the fullness of stained lips.
These are things to call my own,
the things that you don't wish to touch.
Each supple reminder that the spaces between
are the ones where we exercise delicacy and practice patience.
Where I lie and wait, in weight.
Where I lie, heavy with thought.
Where I lie and feel the force of gravity
as it pulls me closer to centre.
The smoke is not enough to choke on, yet.
It's close enough to fill your lungs
to leave you teary-eyed and hoarse.
It's enough that you can look directly into the sun,
painting dusty rose over the horizon.
It erases geography and appoints new frames-of-reference,
it alters your perceptions.
When everything is a catastrophe, nothing is,
and now every hour is golden.