vegemite dreams

In a melancholy, defeatest kind of way, he says: baby, I'm starting to think about toast. But he's lying in my bed, his chest rising faintly with eacn shallow breath, like a hiss of wind over a desert plain, and my cool plastic heart tells me that tonight, just like last night and the night before, there'll be no toast. Not for him, not for me, not for any of us.

oxoxox nora