The way I moved my feet was improper,
something was too close to something else,
I tripped on my own momentum.
Other people’s cheeks are covered in rouge and in fur
ours press together, hairs sensing pulse–
soft, slow, powdery moves.
By now you have ceased breathing and your eyes
have settled in their sockets, floating in their own moisture.
Stampeding through your mind I find stillness,
hear only my own steps thudding
on the floor of a white dream.
What color sugar did they spin your brain out of?
What stems and leaves crunch below my soles?
I break the chastity spell,
the kettle’s whistle the silence:
The last thing to break must be me, on your mental floor,
or in the space between your arm and the door.