Day 4

The first inhale, thick from last night’s smoke.
Dragging me fully into consciousness.
The light in my window is the same every time.
A bed with no frame.
Have I gone insane?
Is it too cold?
I’ll shut off the fan.
The waves can’t sustain,
I can hear my own brain.
That tile squeaks.
A tiny stutter in the bulb.
A vision comes clean.
The scrape of grounds, always the same.
Grounding thuds.
The roommate’s daily line.
‘Cold out all night, the pipes froze.’
Fogged glass, dripping patterns.
A bird outside, look at the feathers on that one.
Left of the sink, right of the sink, slightly rotated.
Perfect cup.
Silver skies.
A ray of light.
This doesn’t taste, just quite right.
Bubbling mess.
The pipes’ daily protest.
Unreadable face.
Quite disdain.
Cups still hot.
Nearly full.
Crumbs?
From when?
I can hear my own head.
There’s that fox again.