I wake up on the ceiling and fall downstairs
to find her in the kitchen.
She calls me a "cunt"
and glares down into her coffee.
The ill-fitting insult slides off me
and into my drink.
I take a sip, hoping to find it again,
to feel its heat.
Her eyes are swimming in her mug ––
I wish I could fish them out with a fork,
set them on the table next to my cold eggs,
newspaper, and toast.
I would take off work to sit there, all day,
and admire the burning cities inside them.
