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Description
“... [toska] is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning.”
-- Vladimir Nabokov

A lip-print mars the crystal glass of rosé.
I once swore to never drink alone.
The comings and goings of light and sound
gleam across the blank-screen tv, dimly
and there is only the sound of crickets and laughter, distant,
planes flying overhead, full of people
close enough for caressing, for breathing
each other’s breath in the stale-pretzel humanity
of coach. I imagine their night-view,
light pollution like earth-bound stars below;
for me, streetlights, cheap motels and shitty cars.

Night is a thin chill on the sheets,
and the books in their cases lean,
cover to hand-worn cover,
rounded spines just touching.
I'm not sure whose hand they want
fingering their bindings,
but mine no longer seems sufficient.
The cats are hiding beneath the bed
whose surface I use only half of,
arm sometimes slipping off the edge
though there is no one to grumble
if I take more than my share of mattress.
I'm sure that if Whoever was here
the cats would not be hiding.

Description
“... [toska] is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning.”
-- Vladimir Nabokov

A lip-print mars the crystal glass of rosé.
I once swore to never drink alone.
The comings and goings of light and sound
gleam across the blank-screen tv, dimly
and there is only the sound of crickets and laughter, distant,
planes flying overhead, full of people
close enough for caressing, for breathing
each other’s breath in the stale-pretzel humanity
of coach. I imagine their night-view,
light pollution like earth-bound stars below;
for me, streetlights, cheap motels and shitty cars.

Night is a thin chill on the sheets,
and the books in their cases lean,
cover to hand-worn cover,
rounded spines just touching.
I'm not sure whose hand they want
fingering their bindings,
but mine no longer seems sufficient.
The cats are hiding beneath the bed
whose surface I use only half of,
arm sometimes slipping off the edge
though there is no one to grumble
if I take more than my share of mattress.
I'm sure that if Whoever was here
the cats would not be hiding.