Fill

Morning clear as alcohol on the skin, thin blue air. There’s no room but I am still here. Photos in these rooms fall like ashes. The heat that simmers on even after they’ve all gone home. See, we are limber when we’re wrong. The leaves with their weak smiles wish they knew what to say. The days are getting shorter, the waves down by the bay all pulling back. The lifeguards further away now, lost in their chairs, the day behind them, waits to get its fill.