We’ll both struggle eventually tonight.

You crawl into a photo booth and with each flash, replace the hope boxed below your bed back home – its notes, photos, puzzles, tarnished and forgotten estate sale relics beside poorly stitched seams on altered and form-fitting relationships, overflowing their light from under the lid for not. If company won’t, melatonin and the evidence of tonight’s transaction at the foreign exchange will get you through unrest while the boxes burn. 

You snore in the smudge.

After dinner, I recall my checked coat and take the embolism line from a second story flat to 6th and Ashland while a dozen provoked and ignored messages flicker their reminders – how much of this is my fault, that there’s still makeup smeared on the pillow, and what it was like deciding not to touch you every night. 

Spiritless pulses are any moan but yours. 

But you slide under the weight of a large muppet.