The Word-a-day Writing Challenge

Day Fifty-Eight: Yawn

Odd,

standing naked in a strange house
full of memories
of people you've never met. Six in the
morning, wondering:
Will I get in my car
and go? Or crawl
back into her bed and surrender, place my lips
between her shoulder blades,
in the space where wings would meet

if wings
were what any of us
had to work with.

I have to go, I say
as she wraps me around
her body. Just stay, she yawns—

the only words I alternately
ever
and never
want to hear.


So instead
we make breakfast: bean burritos, cowboy coffee,
and a joint. She shows me pictures
of her family. Necklace beads. Her snowboards.
Mementos.
She tells me stories,
and between us there is a
space. Our agreement,
she called it the other night
when I tried to kiss her
at the bar. Woo-ho-hooo there.
Hand on my chest, hot breath in my ear.
That's not the way to do it
if you don't want
                           anyone
to know.

But I'm not sure what 

I don't want
anymore.