Sunday’s molasses air swaddles my body in all the places it is aching

a sedentary suggestion soon to harden to a mold.

I have been thinking about getting up to get a glass of water for about a half-hour

for now I am drinking in a Marlboro-tinged pillowcase and trying to remember what wanting feels like.

any attempts to catalyze me are nauseatingly earnest

but a string of nights drenched in hedonism has left the in-between too stale to chew.