The burn of the glare of a mal-humored bend of sunlight
coming through slats of blinds.
Water boiling in a pot before being poured over the Hummingbird blend.
Coffee soon with heavy creamer.
Thighs still sore from quaking.
Ass still sore from tightening in nervous tension.
Cheeks still sore from smiling so hard for so long.
(And, she looks for some sort of transition here,)
And, finding none,
She moves to the
Room under the moon.