bedroom as

“…one message…”

and then the voice, honey (?) coated

    It’s…I know you weren’t expecting this call,

    but I thought you should know…”

            I placed the phone on the pillow beside me,

            a catch in my throat


on the mattress, closed,

    leather-bound, makara-colored cover beneath my left hand

        in the right, a still-capped pen

    wondering if ever it would write


the night stand—one corner balancing books

a tulip-shaped flute, glistening from the rosé

    bubbling inside—I couldn’t yet drink

                —on the nose: raspberry, cherry, a bit of rose?


lamp knocked to its side, bulb burning

on the wall hands open and close

unlike the child’s game, their shapes



it should’ve been your voice caught dripping into my ear

it should’ve been your lips on the tulip, your fragrance weighing the air

it should’ve been your cinnamon skin beneath tipsy fingers,

and then my tongue


it should’ve been your shadow on the wall

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