Object

The waking up to television
static, to the record left on.
Since the music ran out
at four the needle has
circled black center—for once
allowed to sing of
its own inanimate pleasures.

The waking up same-clothed
but a stranger in the sunlight.

Remembering
those two who kissed on your
porch, glasses in hand.
How the Night's tense
shoulders relaxed and turned
buttery.

She was on
their side the
whole time
Vicariously present
in their new
skin.

Blushing for them:
the hues of her helium
and nitrogen
tempering the the vast
mascara blackness of
her complexion because
it has been so long since
she was young enough
to be loved.