By Ryan Gulledge
On a creaky futon, lingering
cheap incense & petrichor.
Hot chocolate dregs
stain the bottoms of our mugs
Like patchwork. Your knitting
in your lap, needles clacking
away the hours. Unfinished
green mittens. The TV’s decree:
Jack Skellington should stay
in his own holiday. It feels like one to
Us, our lashes illuminated by scant fanlight.
Ersatz fireflies kissing your brow, reflected
in the glasses you hate, and I love
the stillness in you.