Your phone rang. S. is calling you. You answer and she speaks. Something. She tells you something. You talk. The conversation ends. Birds have been chirping all morning. You can hear them through your window. Your window spans the entire wall of your room. A large, clear window. The Sky comes into your room.
You were falling asleep. M. is texting you. A poem by Plath. "Morning Song." You try to read it. You can't. You skim it. You try to read it over and over. Yet you skim it each time. You think of F. You think of M. You reply. The conversation ends. Your window rattles, the wind whistles at you. It is like you are at the beach. The wind brings the sea into you room.
You were falling asleep. Now you are writing. You are these words. You are these words. You are t h e s e w o r d s.