Again the Anthology of Bedroom Scenes
And phones ringing through bedrooms and curtains blowing into bedrooms while we lie looking but not believing, really, in curtains, wind, two separate lives. We are cynical photographers holding something blue in our hands. A sheet perhaps, the dim color of nighttime. We carry these lives like branches until they fall and die on pavement. Only a moment until this moment —you, warm, holding me, the curtains pushing out, your breath at my back— is over. You, naked but for your socks.