Every morning, in my slippers and kitten soft robe,

I’d grind the beans. I’d pull my hair into a wrapping

tentacle braid and wash my pink-tipped fingers in the sink.

Pieces Photos: Kristin SeymourText: Kelly Heyde

My noseis just a rampfor my snowboard tears to launch off of, twisting and turning into his big brown mug. How canevery morning feel like a rainstorm when the sun still licks my pillowed cheek?

The night of his birthday I wore a black dress that almost looked liquid.

He blew out the candles and I watched with a gluey smile and tired eyes.

The picture in the summer with my whisper of a

white sundress he liked the most. “Your legs look like super tan,” he said.

It took me hours to make my hair wave so subtly.

“I’m going to get ready, I’ll just be a minute.”

Air puffed from his mouth in disbelief at my claim.

A yawn tickled my throat, but I was afraid it would morph

into a scream. I walked away while he swallowed more salty coffee so I can begin

bubble-wrapping myself in fabric and cosmetics.