down from the bottom of everything

the first type of loneliness is when i start

to see my own face in the bumps on my bedroom

ceiling. sometimes

it feels like i'm locked in a marriage with

my own head; i come home, say "honey,

we need to get flypaper, they're driving

me crazy, and say what's for dinner,"

she looks and doesn't answer, she loves 

to look and not answer, she's an it, she's a

he, she's me, there's no pronouns for something that's alive

without a heartbeat. later she drifts into the

bedroom, sees me

try to tear down the rafters with my eyes,

says "we need to repaint this room, look how

it flakes where the walls meet." i laugh, say, 

"like snow?"

"no, like skin,"

and we both stare 'cause we can't remember

when this became our home. 

and don't you know,

the sky is a mirror when you live in a monochromatic

world. she points at an airplane dropping thirty thousand feet

from the air, 

says, "look, baby, there's us."