my head on her right side; greyed static of being somewhere else besides here; not a crumpled tissue

canted hurry for the knob
white paint closer than before
and the sound that a body makes
against a closed door that can close further
grained-metallic thud of a locked joint

and then again; there
tossing the sheets to the side
hands cupping the throb of the cusp
the grey not moist
the door where it was
and now
an erect walk