Product of a sore neck.

Like being in a room
so still, you can see dust
resting on the carpet
waiting to be swept up by cautious step.
And your breathing is heavy
yet melodic. The carpet now flaked with dust
shows lines from a vacuum
four hours after the fact.

Despite the fact this sore neck
makes me walk large
and think in gusts,
I'm still able to remember
the way our conversation ended last night.
Your voice trailing off inside
short sentences over the light ring
of mattress springs compressing
and the only thing that would've made it better
if it would've happened today
so I could've been surrounded by
naked white walls,
alone in my apartment.
I would still wake up cradling
the phone between neck and cheek
hoping you would do the same.