Daylight

The coffee in this diner has a skin.

I’m watching my face in the glass

of a machine that sells stale honey buns

and wondering if I look as tired as I feel.

The room last night was beige and smelled

too much like industrial lemon soap.

The sheets were a grey tangle,

trapping the heat of two people

who didn't bother to learn each other's middle names.

The sun is hitting the salt shaker now.

I’ll go home and wash the scent of his detergent

off my skin, then sleep until the light goes flat.