these sheets are not my sheets. they're not his sheets either. these sheets are no mans land bedding, temporary refuge. crisp as we jump in and then thrown off in the early hours. the radiator switches over and then through the window a crack of sun from the whitewash, a lucky day. the dove grey walls, and the milky-tea sky, a pile of warm stripped duvet, blending the light into a false comfort.

then im waking up a second time and you are already gone. i dreamt your alarm, i thought, but really you just forgot your phone here on the floor.


the ways in which we remember sitting squarely with the ways in which we forget.