Two tonsils touching. You would suffocate, if it wasn’t for the phlegm lubricating the edges. You attempt to remove the funereal veil finding the lids separated, already full with vaseline. Opaque filters should not change the way you see the dark but shadows look humid. Your hair is frizzy. They walk in pairs; eyes, lips, hands, nostrils, ear drums. Except yours have holes in them like over worn Christmas jumpers, moth-bitten, out of season. Listen to that carol you can’t stop singing. Only two bars of eight. You become Noah. The room that just became a room is an arc. Two chairs. Matching freshly laundered pillow cases. Symmetrical bedside tables. A pair of half-drunk coffee cups. Two stars to read the space by, though it’s not really enough for a proper constellation. You are just one and quite frankly it ruins the aesthetic.