January 13

The canning jars upon your sill
no flowers yet partial to their touch
they're cold as ice come every night
as they reflect the glow of your television
while you lie in slumber
and those visions around your head
enfold me into your creases

And I felt your shadow shrink
into my chest
as you offered up your climb
to show me all your paper airplanes
against the light of your lampshades

The window crawled open
to the sundown
and the light outside was a small, intractable beam
as it cast your silhouette
and talked you into bed
moving you
like a whisper in the tall grass

And when I woke up, the world was old