tomorrow is monday,
all drama and dramamine
coalescing from coil to bitter
telephones droning yesterday’s news
and tomorrow’s history.
you spend your sundays
lighting incense you liken
to japanese death ceremonies,
while i walk the long way home
each night thinking about
what we would’ve seen if you could
step out of your coffin.
so we compromise:
between the hours of yesterdays and
tomorrows, we leave the call on
and fall asleep to each other’s
static breathing.