/ Poetry /
There was music wailing
from room 308 late on a
Sunday night and your teeth
were shiny straight while I
was chewing on the blues.
My scissors were dull, your
snowflake cuts too perfect. I
pulled bits of white paper
scraps out from your hair
while you yawned, looking at
your watch, as if to remind
me of time. I pretended not to
see you and arranged those
paper scraps into stars. I built
a universe around your knees,
and the snow kept on falling
until sleep.