living rooms

She smiles as she stands in the kitchen
her face draped in white
flush with the rise of morning

He stares at the ceiling
textured with yellow sides
like old books who starve to be read
and thinks about nothing
about only breathing
This is something she never understands.

She holds fruit in her hands:
strawberries and peaches
blackberries and melons
in the sink with the water running
she turns each over
cleaning off the film and dirt
slicing off bruises
and throwing the bad away

He drags the smoke through his filter
and exhales slowly, almost meticulously
he does this time and time again
letting the cigarette bounce between his lips
but now his mind wanders
to pyramids, the Nile
cobbled streets, and oceans run wild
and just for a minute,
if anyone asks,
he's not there.