Petrol-lines triangles
in green and gold leaf,
the flick of a nostril
with a thumb
hold your hand on your eyebrow,
squint into blue shadow.
Your phone totem
pulled from an Issey Miyaki
leitmotif,
a finger held to your temple,
antenna to your tiredness,
your yawn.
Crossed legs,
blue trousers turned twice
to below mid-calf.
No harm, no invitation,
slumped to focus on, thumb
through bric à brac.
Curl your hand into a
fist
of no-harm-meant belief,
stifle your yawn.
Patent leather brown
eyes ever
pursed lips, you warm
your hand between your thighs,
disarming
how you
handle boredom,
how you control
grief.
Slump in your throne,
touch fingers to lips,
scratch at a nostril hair,
an infinite
scroll.