Background Noise

The pixels show a garden and a lace-white sleeve.

It’s the kind of joy I no longer believe.

They’re holding crystal flutes in a summer blur,

while I’m caught in the shadow of who they were.

I snapped the plastic fork on my takeout tray.

Three jagged tines in the sauce of the day.

My hair smells like oil and a week of the flu.

I hate the sunlight for touching you.