Are you mine? Do we begin and end together?
Do I even know what I belong to, what parts of me I own?
There is a dull gold lamp lit in the corner of the room,
with a pale skirt of light that is barely trying
to break through this powdery afternoon air
when afternoon has curled inside itself and run away with the sun,
and we are left,
with knife-edge light, grey clouds turned into teeth and cold breath.
And the birthday card is caught in that silver reflection
flashing against sky with tarnished reds
and curdled exclaimation points.
And here I am,
wondering why the light is stale,
and where you are tonight.