between the hours
thick blankets lie padding the floor where
i wake alone today
sleeping in a little longer to remember
what slipped between the hours
but what is it i’m choosing to hold on to?
is it that september evening
drinking jameson from a coffee mug on the sidewalk
at the corner of 4th and molino
listening to sirens sing and neighbors fuck
searching for noise to fill
the gaps of silence
that whiskey stained promises could no longer fill
or
is it the years we catalogued when spring came
unexpectedly
and we forgot the feeling of blinking with ice on our lashes
or
is it that
our bed once stood here
kept together by nuts and screws that rattled loose
each time his skin met
mine and our cold fingers wrapped
tight
not around each other but
clutched onto the broken pieces of
the third whiskey glass
he slung across the room in
yet another
attempt to make us
bleed
Rebecca Lee is bouncing around from city to city, living on standby. She is currently at work on her first novel.
