I gain nothing in this December light.
Last night’s shed clothes wrinkle on cherry hardwood, while so close behind me, he stands with scrunched morning eyes.
His chest tentatively embraces my goose-bumped back, we shudder at the point of contact, two warm bodies huddled in this drafty basement. Could we ever gain anything in this December light?
I escape the straitjacket arms to pick up my bra, metallic canines seize the shaggy rug. I pause, unable to look up to meet his scrunched morning eyes, he stands so close behind.
On my knees, I look to the ledge where a candle bargains with air
— We could have burnt the house down.
Is regret all we can earn in this December light?
He moves to the stove, lights the gas, the element flares
— Eggs purgatory? I look to the kitchen. He stands close enough; I view his profile with scrunched eyes.
I want to pass my finger through the waning flame, to be brave. I softly declare, There really is nothing for us to gain in this December light— and then his scrunched morning eyes close, and he is standing behind me as he should.