among the torn silks of phrase

i wake unable to speak, with the mornings already
heavy and orange above me.

i am uncertain
how
it took so much
to recognize this
and the way that
the shadows of us will continue to lengthen.

i have caught ruin in your face,
she says,
her fingers
tapping at my wrist.
we ramble thoughts
through piano whispers
and a vague duvet, we
burrow in such
confidence.

i foretell the camphor
aftertaste of needing ten thousand kilometers.