i wake as if from another world
and there is no way of knowing
who i was before the click of
your pen roused me from a static
spell of dark. it is the kind of morning
that sheds when i start, circadian layers
unspool between the ribs as my body
makes its way across the landing.
i do that thing again: where i derive
my own contentment from the erratic
satisfaction of another. regret still wears
my name, frays along the edges
of misplaced capitals and self-effacing vowels,
leaves an asymmetric bend beside redemption.
it is a tendency ingrown: i expect to be held
while i forget that i exist until the atmosphere
brims over and i question the dimensions
of my bones. when floorboards push back
against the barometric pressure, i realign
with purpose and the core of me
converges in the wind.