He presses his pen into my paper flesh--blotting ink, mocking my veins.

He, "Never mind."
I, "Never will."

A tall drink of water; I'm parched. The ink blotches sheets of paper, like stained cotton beneath a windowsill. His curtains tangle over our web of legs that lack motivation. A lazy arm drapes over my deflated chest, and I think of erasing whole alphabets.

The wind lends a drying hand to the creases behind my knees as I'm scooped by his arms--branded and too large for my grip.

I told him about taping my keys--duct, electrical, masking--because I have difficulties getting in. I can't match proper key to proper lock, and this is supposed to be home.