Sunday Morning, 5 AM

a sunday morning, 5 AM

the sheets have peeled from the mattress
to uncover cigarette burns.
my arms are clean, too delicate for this squalor,

they look foreign and arresting, tender
against the film of filth coating the room.
the night table has bubbled and overflowed

a stream of trash and beer tabs,
lustrous crushed cans line the floor
grazing ringent condoms, outdated newspapers

the decaying skin of an orange. the blankets hold
indentations from the place we slept;
craters, narrating the cartography of our

togetherness. he lets me smoke
in bed, I love to lie on my back against
the only unsullied pillow before the sun even rises,

striking matches and watching slender white
lines emit from my nose;
they float to the window before they crumble.