Leftovers

scrape sunburnt bits of yesterday's moonlight with gnawed fingernails from the distorted bottom of an aluminum pan- maybe you could crumble this bloated, metal reflection with two blistered fingertips. but you keep breathing with this dark, cold room, hum that old song with the dishwasher. it's the one your grandmother used to sing you when she rocked you to sleep, the one that you haven't heard on the radio since your first kiss. because maybe, just maybe, you're somewhere under these scraps of whatever you ate yesterday, the stuff that made you more hollow than ever. maybe you're at the bottom of this pan that just isn't quite empty. like you.