We lie in the dark and you begin to say something. I wait. 

You stroke my spine with your thumb intermittently which 

reminds me of the low hum of cars passing a window at night, 

or the rolling succession of dots as content is loading. 

 

Day rises like damp, indirectly. Yolky gold on the tiny edges, 

filigree hairs on the arc of a thigh. Your voice arrives from 

somewhere deep inside of or behind itself, and the shape 

of the room begins to set, slow, like cooling gelatine.

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