When you phoned and we never spoke again

I pick at things when I am anxious. By the time I was done talking to you half the rug was gone. Dustless. Coated in just enough light to lie in the striped sun. Looked awfully like a prison. Been trying to learn new jazz chords, would require breaking my hands, which are not big enough and too idle. It felt like holding yours. I didn't want broken hands. Didn't know where to put my anger. No room in the wardrobe, clothes I couldn't get rid of. Something about sentiment, or everything circling back into fashion. Remembered those jeans from that picture on my wall, can’t find them, probably don’t fit anyway.