one-night-standing:

there was an elephant on your ceiling. yes —

i see it now. i see its patchworked skin

as i lie silent here

in a twin-sized bed beside you,

your elbow fit into the crease of mine.

i wandered in the daybreak haze

of after-wine, of after-love,

and smoke-filled eyes,

and the infantile sound of your clock on the wall.

the room takes shape in a blur

(a soundless gasp for breath): elephant

takes form above clock

takes form over desk

takes form near waste-bin

takes form on gunmetal carpet

takes form beneath chair

takes form under down-jacket

takes form as

the shape of your shoulders pressed into the fabric,

heavy white and grey and black.

and bed-frame —

taking form under mattress

taking form under me and you, you and me,

half-sleeping strangers in a half-shared bed.

each piece of this depthless setting

slips into place

beside count-filled siblings,

so i count and you breathe and we lie.

it is morning now,

and i haven't slept in your bed.

is this why we call it standing? waiting?

although your elbow fits perfectly in the crease of mine,

you are no-one i could ever love,

and no-one i could ever love

could ever live in a room like this.

(i don't love it.

so my feet dig themselves out of this shallow grave

and in one piece,

this body you will never own

finds its way out of this room i can't sleep in.)