ended early justwrite

Icicles unfold from the spaces between my fingers, hot as your breath against my neck in the earliest hours when the teapot is whistling frantically on the stove and there is no desire in any room for someone to set it free. The dishes are three-days dirty in the sink, water long-settled in their throats and chests, heavy, waiting. There is dust holding silent meetings in the corners, a spider's web on the bedroom ceiling that sways each time the heat turns on as if an invisible guardian is brushing against the air.