There’s a thin layer of dust on the dresser top

There’s a thin layer of dust on the dresser top

and the sun is a brutal, yellow line

cutting the room into halves.

I’m looking for the sock with the gray heel.

He’s sitting up now, reaching for the water,

the ice long gone and the glass sweating

on a coaster made of folded-up mail.

Neither of us is looking for a reason to speak.

The window unit is rattling in the frame,

a low, mechanical grind that fills the gaps

between the radiator's clink and my breathing.

It’s just a Tuesday, and we’re both just awake.