Yesterday, on the faded-blueof your tired house,smoke hovered, harrowing, without its wings.You dove damp into the melancholyember glow of the herb burnbetween the tips of your fingers.
I did not existbetween that suffocating breathfor you, for myself.
Today, on the broken-tilesof your sleeping house,we are both in the clouds again.Your chipped nailsall I glimpsebeneath the hot oatmealfog misting your face.
In that frivolous haze of steam and dreams,I could no longer see youlike I used to.
Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash