kerenhe

Any Second Now

I

You raise the sun over the city—a terraced garden of ruffled sheets, corners untucked, light blooming.

The tar-tinted windows gleam just a shade brighter than they should.

A sliver on the horizon dims the buzzing electric sun, lowering you back to a sea of tangled pillow.

Only the silhouette at your door eclipses all but a shard of gold embedded in the ceiling—

ivory teeth unfurl, a jaw suspended by threads daring to wander into the hour.

II

It cowers with every step I take, pressed to the edge of pitch-black you have not named.

Gold seeps through hinge-cracks, fueling your theory:

night is a veil the world wears to mourn just beyond your gaze.

Without a glance back, they reel their fishing lines, hauling away silhouettes—

blossoms, skyscrapers, the hushed scenery stitched to the dark.

III

Best to see myself out. I wipe the grin from my face—keys in hand for a heartbeat.

They fall—clattering, gouging a keyhole in my palm into the dull carpet.

It seals just as quickly.

And suddenly the sunrise hums its static birdsong;

I nest in a garden of floral blankets over the city that should awaken any second now.