i sleep in a t-shirt and no underwear,
rainwater tea, hardcore dreams.
green hair, the internet, chapped lips, cat hair on my sweater.
the still-you scent of my room in the mornings,
till i open the window and grow goosebumps on my legs.
puddles and wet slip-on leaves,
cars that make that whirr sound as they slide on raindrops,
late buses and getting the wind in my face.
not enough pillows;
when i sleep i can never find the right way
and one cheek gets red from lying on it,
and sometimes i don’t know how to not scream when i wake up.
stretched-out bras and falling apart shoes –
i pick at the holes in my jeans but line my books up carefully,
like so many soldiers in a row, formation in the morning.
things get dusty here,
with inlaid fingerprints
and notes from my piano that linger in the air,
sheet music, books that are too old to be overdue.
white and bare,
though i try my best to cover them with
photographs and words i paste up on the walls,
to watch over me during the night.
faces, horses, green words,
the eyes of my cat reflecting carlights from the windowsill.
drawers that are full of things i’ve never seen before,
and my roommate’s image, passing, in a mirror.
hair clips, bobby pins, dimes, bottle caps,
mugs of coffee and the dregs of spilled wine found behind the couch,
and dust balls and cat toys.
plugs, posters, and curtain-ties.
venetian blinds along which i like to run my fingers,
leaving them clean and gleaming to rattle by the open door when i’m asleep.
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