Looking out over rooftops, can’t tell where the sky starts and where the snow stops and it’s pitch black in the colony. Lying on a futon in a living room that’s not done just yet, can’t find my legs again. I’m the only living thing in this roughly fourteen hundred square foot dwelling with rosin paper covered windows, so outsiders looking in would never know. Nobody is questioning just second guessing accepting you. I’d stay but these wet hands keep greetings at bay. Everyone is wondering how troubling it’s been needing you. I’d say but I’ll leave when you look away. I’m the only living thing. Lights on, lights out, at this rate I’ll never leave this house
