sunday poetry i didn't find.

waking up early and too cold to go back to sleep (but then, it was i who left the window open overnight). writing about loss, and the thin hope of regaining. transcribing daydreams. late lunch and early dinner, and all inside a book, on a mountain in the past. a quiet hour. music in my ears bringing a different solitude, and one just as welcome. sneaking vodka into my cola like a teenager, and getting stuck while looking at fabio moon's art (i love gabriel bà's work, but it's fabio's images that always kidnap me). the small rebellion of not repainting my nails.