The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound, and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn, like a burned-out match.
the shrunken envelopes and newspaper are brown and crinkled like the underside of a mushroom, and the slender black sticks are curved with the symmetry of bones.
I fear that I loved you so much I made you up. Wrapped in a towel, I look for evidence of your being here; your empty coffee mug on the table, a pound coin on the kitchen floor...