Nothing Better Articulated Than a Singular Moan

I tear the bedsheets back from my torso, and crouch down beside the mattress, pushing my fat, grubby hands away and repositioning myself.
Ten times more sleek and golden.

With my pricked lips, my fingertips seek the buttons on my shirt.
Just to the left of a yellowing stain is my tattered youth.

I think it still fits, but perhaps I will hold this shirt closed with my thumbs.

Below each arm, it will crawl like fingers.

Only my legs never want to stay still.

Already the hair whorls upwards.

My skin–now salty with misuse–gave in. The baby fat worming over my ribs, midway up my abdomen, in search of something to make it slide away for good.

Up until now if you had asked me if this room has anything of importance, I would have replied and mumbled into the dark corners with a twinkle in my eyes.

Quiet, yet carrying with me all you wish to know.
How oddly the image of you is illuminated.

My long thin fingers again find the buttons on my top.
Playing over them.

The face or a reflection?

Nothing better articulated than a singluar moan.