Frictionless

The coffee machine makes a long, dying hiss

while the light through the blinds hits the dust in the air.

I can’t quite remember the taste of the kiss,

or how we ended up tangled and bare.

There’s a glass on the nightstand, half-empty and flat,

and a mismatched sock by the radiator’s base.

It wasn't a tragedy, it wasn't even that—

just a way to take up a little more space.

You’re looking for your keys in the pocket of your coat

while I stare at the ceiling and wait for the click.

There’s nothing to write and there’s nothing to quote,

just the sound of a watch and the pulse of a tick.