the driver's side

I have to say, there is no cure for where I am, the desk lamp slowly orbiting:
I can see him
lounging in skin above me,
leaning on elbows, dazed
a little tired.
and I, a little more tired,
thinking of India tea
and watching my breasts flatten
against my breastbone.
We don’t notice how the cold air
lingers around the ice in our wine,
making smoky hazes in the glass.
I keep adrift on the smell of my candle;
I also let him watch me
and cling, digging fingernails in cloth,
to the quilt on the floor.
I’m dangling myself toward the downstairs, now
and wishing that it wasn’t morning
but also knowing
that soon I will be clothed again
and sitting blank-eyed in the front seat
of someone else’s car
living someone else’s life.