and the hollow of collarbones.
Sundays and us, considering Vonnegut in monotone,
or the sensuality of earlobes.
Alternating episodes of depression and drowsiness
marked by half-empty coffee cups.
All limbs and guitar strings, Grey Reverend hauntings
and the softness of every tiny paw.
I told you that I would try and not fall asleep again
but I couldn't even do that.
I could only keep my eyes open just long enough
to watch as you shut the door.