Oil on Canvas
10 x 16 inches
Salt Lake City, 2020
Fog consumes the distance between the mountain and the town. In the predawn, the bed is cold, and you and I are the same. My breath pushes against the edge of the world, and only the caterwaul of the dying reply, I swear, we ramble past every ice-encrusted marble effigy, each frozen hand outstretched returning home, with chiseled eyes expressionless, the miles expand between my past existence and this place I now sleep, a bed, a sheet all the accoutrements lie foreign in the low-lit room. There are no houseplants anymore.
Nothing alive remains. Only the windows hang from the wall, a vestige, and all the night falls through. I think of the chair, I think of you, you think I’m a deceiver, but you and I are the same. Our spines twist below our sternums, both full of thunder mismatched beatings rattle our nerves, blanching and wonder-filled. How much flame can we hold between our teeth and still, refrain from passing syrupy lava into our lovers’ mouths as we kiss them each to sleep? Goodnight, you’re welcome, welcome home.