Some mornings, it gets a little better –
the air in the room where I wake
is not humid with stories.
Some mornings, I wake up alone,
boil the water, put on my stockings,
and take it from there.
Some nights, I see you on a new face:
the way you cruelly smile as I unzip my dress
and step out of daylight realities.
We spend some time together,
and by the dawn, we have nothing
left to say.