i stand behind the dirt flyscreen of the door, feeling the cold but choosing not to acknowledge it. i'm waiting for someone to come home, because i don't belong to myself today. & so it is fitting to wait by the windchimes. i have heard those chimes play in a thousand winds, today it's no different.

they don't mean anything.

how do i cross a distance that knows nothing of measure? how do i tell you everything will be so fine? sentiments can be the cheapest thing.

in a voyage across the floor i lose myself in visions, ones that came to be in hours that i didn't exist. you've got a different face, but it is so much the same. & you fall after some awkward statement i made, while half wrapped in your right arm. & i find you in the courtyard, unaware of how much obsession i pour into those casual limbs, into that voice which i never quite hear.

there's a grey film over the windows, it's been so long since it really rained. in the silvery light i lean against the door & wish for something more

but really, this is all there is.

until sundays sweep us away in glances that we trade
at the bottom of the staircase