by Kaylee Pratt
The tapestry he gave me is fleeing the wall,
lilting from the breath of the open window.
The sheets—as a whole—a colloquial heap,
more a mess than the folds in my ribs.
The air tastes like longing and secondhand smokethough the ashtray is empty;
You’d rather throw your lit cigarettes
off the skirts of the balcony
than return to the bed and see me.
Kaylee Pratt enjoys half-dead trees (also known as autumn), jogging uphill (also known as torture), and collecting books (also known as drooling at Barnes & Noble). Despite her literary obsessions, she’s studying as a Creative Media major at Champlain College in order to extend her storytelling into less conventional mediums.