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.