Routines

You make little caves in my sofa, and from their mouths spring gray cotton. Fortunately, these past three months, you haven’t broken the skin. Instead, you wake me with the poke of your snaggletooth, that when lit by the ceiling bulb above, lends your lips a sinister froth. One eye blinks, cloudier to anyone who looks closer, anyone soft enough to pour you some milk every other morning after the reach for brewed chai.

I used to hate the color pink, but I grow into it more. Blotching colors my inpatient skin, my blunt jawline scaly and newly sore. Orchids supposedly beautify the individual, though they hang from the sills of every corporation worth remembering. I wear orchid dresses as they are safe. Despite what some bookish marketing psychologist may preach in her dozen e-books, I am one in the crowd, thought straying from the path of an office. Some days, that path is walked by dozens of frantic flamingos.

Ever since these shades of pink, you creep to my bed with squinting eyes. I remove my headphones and admit I like Bush to a concerning extent.

“Don’t let the days go by.”

I no longer have an alarm clock. Tabby will ram her head against mine and paw at the corners of this feathered pillow. Unlike the sofa, it bears no caves. I open my eyes and I see your tongue, confident in its flicker, as you know it is time to eat.

Each morning, intuition feeds at four.

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