I roll over in my sleep, witching hour in full bloom. The glow of my dumpling night light
makes shadows on the wall. I see you in your apartment, with a jazz record serenading your
silence. Your moustache is preened with wax that smells like licorice. You’ve thrown your
phone in the river, and you’ve told your mother that you won’t be round for dinner. The
water is boiling on the stove, the milky and opal bubbles rise to the top, on the verge of
overflowing. Soon, the caretaker will stop by to check on your aloe vera plants.

A crystal glass sits on the bathtub, lacquered by your finest brandy. Her lipstick marks still
remain, outdated and bitter. A lemon wedge shoved down the sofa sticks up like a leather
smile. You’ve put rice in the rice cooker, and your leftover curry spins continuously in the
microwave. The monotony of the dripping tap hitting the sink sticks to you like saran wrap.
The glassblower made you a dolphin that you keep on your windowsill. By evening, it
transforms into an atlas moth. It’s been a strange month darling, but I hope you’re no longer

Originally published in my collection Strawberry

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