it's sunday. your skin is warm and your lips are soft. my mind is always racing and racing, but my body doesn't feel like moving. my blanket's facing the wrong way and my feet are cold, but my head fits so well in the nook between your head and shoulder that i don't care to fix it.

a stemless wine glass full of merlot shattered on my floor tonight. my room has a nice aroma, but my feet sting.