Maybe today

The blinds flicker and light stretches

lazily into the room,

mixing orange with grey.

Lines glide across the

mahogany table,

glistening when it brushes against

an empty glass.

The lines grow like children after

a second visit,

seeping into white linen

but ending abruptly at

pillows and quiet breaths.

On some days,

the blinds are shut,

the light interrupted -

receding into the busy skyline;

the walls, dim and

closed in.

A taxi leaves the stand

with another faceless passenger.

But today,

the blanket is flung aside

and legs sweep over the edge

of the bed.

The alarm clock beeps.