Words

the tall umbrella rests against the wall. in the roach infested kitchen of an apartment that is regrettably 50% kitchen. 5 stories from the street and 1 story from the clouds.
in a bed. of desert wool and indian patterns. spare wire and electric tape. no sheets and a stained mattress. he slept and she finished the wine. staring out imaginary windows. skin burns and they both remember underground rain, leather boots weighed down with water, falling from the ceiling. and. my god, not enough coffee to last the week.
eyes staring at teeth, teeth biting at skin, and skin feeling selfishly like nothing.