I wake to the sound of jazz playing in some distant room. I wake to the waters that covered the outsides of my eyes and dried. I wake to the breeze, to the heat, to the ground shaking under my feet. I wake to a morning now far off. I wake to a stranger's heartbeat, I won't ever hear. I wake to voices long since forgotten, replaced by some familiarity. I wake to an aching that never seems to end. I wake to this room, empty, with some awkward view of oceans I'm too small to sail on and of forests I may only drift through, maybe once. I wake to silence that hungers me. I wake to an inch of a swallowed whole that clings by nails that dig the flesh and cut the bone, but it's the only piece of this wake that I know, the only broken edge that stabs the eye and allows the canvas to survive.