Momentary

I can still borrow a bed for the night. Even if it’s mine. Even if I get there tired. Even if I get there with half the day left. I don’t know how that happens. I can still borrow a bed for the night. When I sleep. When I don’t. When I forget what sleep is. No need for much. I can still borrow a bed for the night. And I stay. And my phone rings. And I stay. It’s almost comfortable. Nice and quiet. I don’t know how to keep the door open. I’ll go back to where I stay like I can find it. I’ll sleep in colors I don’t recognize, like I don’t recognize somewhere I don’t leave. I’ll forget what the cinder block on my desk is for. I’ll scrub time from my face in the darkness. I’ll get up tomorrow and I don’t know whether that means I’m lucky or I owe someone else something. I will leave ten months after I get to this room or maybe a few hours after. And you. You look better than me. You find me and it’s effortless. I must owe you something. Something I can take apart or something I can ruin