hielo / one hundred and four degrees

maybe it's nothing
cigarette smoke cascading cancer over
old blankets
suffusing particulate suffering as
murmured words
absorbing errors and freewheeling
mental imagery and crushed romantic
dirges into this weathered fabric
rescuing images from the past like a
cloudy sky

she's kind of weird
like that
maybe
it's nothing that she wakes up
early to chuckle over something she's
reading
or make perfect coffee and
hypothesize the day before
bothering me but

it always
seems
to
be 155 in the morning now it
angles into the room like
shafts of ambivalent sunlight
awoken with the ghosts of her and
the hateful architecture of the day
positioned before me
i gather my diseased moorings close and
angle towards it

and
maybe
enlightened by nothing
to nothing
i procrastinate in the softer unseen
edges of her
and designate abandoned boundaries where her
gentle breath breathed tunnels into
mine and
submerge into the discordant ink where her
prose met
mine and find my
enemies in what remains maybe

it's nothing but
the mythic refrains circumnavigating these
streets and rooms which are forever
our moments
a frozen garden
where
nothing grows
or
dies