the hour is five in the morning, it is still dark
and I am not waiting for anyone
I’ve been awake all night talking to myself
and lying
open as a coffin-for-sale
satin lining, antique white, so clean it appears to be
begging to be stained
I’ve been awake all night walking around in circles
trying to construct a perfect moment
from the floorboards to the wainscoting, to the weather
and the feeling. What I’d say, how it would sound
What I wouldn’t but how you’d sense it
floating in the air around
the scent of ash and vanilla and rain, I set and reset
the scene. I’ve measured with my eyes the distance
and the scale. Close enough is enough, even this chaos
is placed. It places me to the side, where I can see
I build my dreams, sand dioramas, and in the morning
when the sun is still shy
I return them without remorse back into piles
of ever-changing need
I am not waiting for anyone,
yet your boots are by the door
and you’ve tracked mud into the walkway
this, too,
by design
more this than anything else
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