sixteen.
Infant's morning
In shades of white
Presses it's hands against cimmerian windows
Climbs into
The dust suspended in light
Climbs into
The skin behind
The lids of my eyes
Did I wake so soon, did I return
From the strangeness of forgotten spaces
In my sleep?
The day tugs at my lashes
Haunting the stale cigarette smoke
Braided into the collar of my coat
Whose still slumbering eyes flicker
On a hook by the door
I am overcooked eggs
I am charred coffee in the pot
And I mourn the night's passing
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