These Cells Are Passages

How hard I try. Dylan on the radio. Clumsy whispers against glass--we draw shapes in the steam. How hard I try to recognize slow hums, your throat, boiling water in your chest.

I'm alone here. Pillow is damn cold. Answer's blowing nowhere--it's a rattle in my skull. I am alone, watching bubbles rise, multiply. I blow at the foam, my dinner almost done. I burn my hand by accident. Clumsy whispers--"shit!"--and I eat dinner alone.