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It was a morning of a single cigarette. In a small kitchen, the coffee looked thick. Warm skin touching. It rang twelve. The paper called. Left feeling whole. Say goodbye, purple. She watched herself leave. A time of people walking in cardboard. The pavement echoed. She read the morning paper. Thick coffee & headache, no take-away. Skinny brainy network of blood. She had to leave. A raindrop on a plane surface. A woman is pregnant, sweet honey-suckle, Canadian maple-syrup. Childhood, sacred, baby bird. Green light, cars, way-to-the-home; still, she lingers. Concertiste, the curtain has dropped. A woman drinks thick coffee, ticks the box, tic tac toe, nine ticking clocks. Eyes open, lashing out, watery eye lashes. Watery face. Paint me, brush me, dilute me, standing scoliosis. A bee, a bedside table, embedded world. It was a blue morning of slow company in a sea of cotton. She tried to see herself, look, I cannot see. Eyes on them, bubbly babies, who to keep. Three ducks in a pond, two pieces of rye bread. She floated, bee in cotton. She let herself be touched, coffee come inside her, hello, hi. A cigarette in the morning. Windowsill cigarette, sitting, still. Cold light melting her, agroforestry-industry. Round breasts, full cheeks, soft legs. Watching herself, watch herself, what you doing. It was a mourning of a single cigarette.

Photograph by Juliette Guéron-Gabrielle

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