Next to your unmade bed
A jar of dulce de leche has sat open for three days straight.
You had hoped that the sweetness would drift to your dreams.
Hold this heartache here, catch this there.
Like a film of fruit flies, all it wants is for everything.
Don’t eat! Not if you don’t want to.
An old spoonful of screaming.
The contents, empty calories, insects, supplemental protein.
Awoken. Unfathomable.
Dearly detested,
Is it difficult to move from your back? This virus, ineradicable.
You can blame David Cronenberg and Kafka all you want.
If only you had done your dishes on time.