heavily awake with my feet rubbing against flannel. aeroplanes are groaning through the sky and tiny whips of rain tickle the house. heavy, dry foot to porcelain, then another. peeling back the shower curtain wistfully and pressing my face against the screen of the winter window, ajar.

i chew open the right side of my mouth and out spills a torrent of iron astringency.

february hurls me toward a two year axis marking her physical absense. she, through a lens. turning furiously left, searching for clarity. focus, i hum. to the right, more carefully this time. for a moment the image is clear-- she is made of parts that i have kissed and adored. it is clear, and just for a few seconds, she is real again. then, she shifts, the images blurs, i click and click but she is lost.

these days, i wear a small antique key around my neck. february's cold spell is breaking, but the lust for hibernation manifests further. if i wore the ashy mark of christianity, i would say 'this is a time for quiet cooperation with the Lord' -- a capricious collection of words that might be translated as my need for all-penetrating harmony. i am balancing barefoot on the edge; my body extends as a tightrope. i don't leave footprints.