When I Think About You, The World Seems A Little Smaller

I.
Your room on fire— a haven kept back
by glass and torn from the sky
which the sun grasps
and flails its arms across
the wooden floor, embracing fallen,
wounded bodies of coal that have burnt out
from harsh, spiked tongues
and our rusted legs melt on the sun’s
plate, fusing two radioactive hearts;
always glowing red.
 
II.
A local cafe with a blue and red sign
twisted into a neon “open”; the door is
wedged by a repurposed block that’s peppered with
dirt and appears like the coffee
served in a sturdy, yellow mug
and milked to drinking temperature.
 
III.
The murphy bed that inconveniently floods
white into the room; we wrap each other
dizzily bright till one
in the afternoon,
kissing foreheads,
noses and mouths—
where is your heart when the time to leave rolls
to the edge of the bed, forcing a whole into two halves,
sinking the flood back into the wall?

^1 ^2