there's no conversation, here. he thinks. if he screams loud enough. wrenches every last cheap window covering from the root of the sill. to let the light seep. every clotted corner. like broken blood vessels and the way tears get caught in the back of the throat. might stop the pressure. invisible hands around his neck. blinds don't undress themselves. and time rocks. creaks like chairs in a memory on a hard wood floor. this story isn't true. he thinks. i am not here. without you. in a room without a view. and my voice doesn't crack every time you appear and i want to squeeze love. like lemons. until the sour caustic moments stop burning my eyes. so much. and her skin doesn't turn and fold like buttery blank sheets of worn paper. all he wants, he thinks, is a safe warm place to lay his head. to see clearly out. just for awhile.