The candles shadowed my lampshade
impressing two balloons on my ceiling.
They floated rigid, refusing to flicker.
He was going to mention them. Eyes
stuck to the typewriter, the vinyl, the
photos. I prostitute somebody’s history.
He said, but they look more like a broken
heart and I said that we don’t know what
that looks like, besides, we’re here now
not that we’re in love.
There’s a film of wet on the windows.
A girl has a long photo of cheerleaders.
People, glasses scarves bus people.
I want to say
that I am trying to be transparent
I am without
and the balloons start to flicker
because I left the candles burning
a pillow on my brain.
I keep the light on. without.
it makes it seem innocent.