self-portrait with loose hair

supine on cold bathroom tile, memories of⠀⠀
the weight of his hand lingers on my neck⠀⠀
just beyond this door you sleep on your left side in a tall bed in our bright room⠀⠀
I should like to make a pot of coffee or⠀⠀
spill my guts to him and race through pastures⠀⠀
in France or Idaho where dreams come true⠀⠀
languid, melting haunts whistle on the back end ⠀⠀
the space between muse and clay ever blurring in balmy nights⠀⠀
which have skipped our little house of late⠀⠀
these are the illusions of love whose notes dance on dust beams⠀⠀
I adjust the straps of my dress ⠀⠀
a clump of hair is stuck on the edge of the bathtub the neighbor coughs beyond the window⠀⠀
I like a woman borne of color, black and blue and ribboned, adorned by twisted fury ⠀⠀
her eyes look left of camera, unbothered by the presence of observers, knocking bejeweled knuckles against ivory keys ⠀⠀
or hot canvas in azure courtyards⠀⠀
a childish gap in her teeth⠀⠀
I am no such creature, though the muscles in my right arm have a curve now from holding hands so tight⠀⠀
do I move you?⠀