Anna Taylor

The stagnant days, with air full of static
skin pressed heavy against the space around it. 

Electric, ticking. Residue held as dust.
Bare feet grey on soles, the past days layered onto them. 
Her hair raised in strands to float as though on water
I pressed my forefinger and thumb and felt the abrasion. 

We were walking in a house.
A hallway, dark wood, a chair propped against an artexed wall, 

I ran my fingers over points and ridges
It would scrape your knuckles, the back of your hand. 

Time held within it
We were suffocated by the volume
hung so thick it could crumble in chunks, layers,weight held sideways, pulled into peaks 

I lay on my bed and watched shapes in the ceiling, 
A surface set above each night
Trace with my finger as eyes grow heavy,
the hand falls.