Nude legs slip from beneath the comforter,
fist clutching sheet to clammy skin,
as snow traipses beyond white frosted window.

She won’t linger here,
her skin shivers with anxiety,
charged and ready for flight.

Clothes on carpet, on bookshelf, on doorknob,
she snatches materials spread over Berber and brass
and distances herself from cold, from mistake.

Spindly fingers stretch for the black bag
strewn over green velvet chair,
reeking of cigarettes and brandy.

She tosses last night
over her shoulder
with the black bag,
remembering fingertips on hands, on shoulders, on cheek,

and slips between doorframes
into the froth
knowing that, still,
no one has touched her.