Dead Mice

He'd not dreamt me. I not him. But we woke up next to each other nonetheless. The whiskers on the drugs twitching. At the tiny holes through which we could not fit. The water. Teasing the sand. In a calm insomnia I couldn't help but envy.

The toadstools between her toes as she stood. Looking quite contrary. The moon casting shadows. As she bent. To pick up the pieces. The math she had failed to understand now manipulating. The sums she'd always assumed she had.

The creak of the chains. As she swung her legs. The playground under her dress. As the dog barked. The stray. Under her skin. Hungry for strangers. Cautious. With the broken bricks that once were her house.

The lever at the yoke of her fist. Disconnected from everything. The thunderstorm in her bed. Yelling so loud that no one would listen.