the drear, stagnant core of day, when grey mass thrums ambient and office dirt stirs, when phones wake,
with a rattle, a rattle, a rattle, to spew words skywards,
which ask if I might meet, if tonight I might stay, if tonight I might yield and accept his limbs to roam mutely over mine, to release when come and consciousness depart, denuding expectation to a low day’s muddle,
where, in the pressure of limerence, eyes wend windowwards, slinking beyond money, beyond Monday,
to nothingness,
to worlds without thought or obligation, where I might neither acquiesce nor fall victim to sloth,
where I might yet hold firm,
resistive for a moment, if only that
<
with a rattle, a rattle, a rattle, to spew words skywards, 
which ask if I might meet, if tonight I might stay, if tonight I might yield and accept his limbs to roam mutely over mine, to release when come and consciousness depart, denuding expectation to a low day’s muddle, 
where, in the pressure of limerence, eyes wend windowwards, slinking beyond money, beyond Monday, 
to nothingness, 
to worlds without thought or obligation, where I might neither acquiesce nor fall victim to sloth, 
where I might yet hold firm, 
resistive for a moment, if only that
