The Morning After the Math

The dust is waking up in the gray-blue light,

settling on the dresser and the stack of old mail.

Beside me, the breathing is heavy and slow,

the sound of a stranger surviving the night.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand

to check the time or the weather or an exit,

and realized I don't know the spelling of the name

I’d have to type in to find out who this is.

On the coaster, a glass of water sits half-empty,

ringed with a thin, iridescent film of bubbles

that won't pop until the sun hits them.

It’s just physics.

It’s just two people trying not to be cold.