You look best in my lamp light. Your belly scar rough underneath my fingertips as I jump the scratch and attach myself to your hips, kiss your pelvic bone until even my teeth can taste your sweetness. I can feel black kettles and the burn from the ironing board crash of 1999. When weβre wrestling in my duvet covers, the shadows cast your memories up like a sanctuary projection. I see red race cars, your brother jumping on the couch, fishing bait kept in your back pocket. Your lips taste like liquor but I hear nursery rhymes from when you were little, wobbly, an over-all dream in the yard seen through the kitchen window. I know, that youβve dressed yourself in bad dreams and broke yourself over footballs and houses of green paper, but you look best in my lamp light when my hands cram your face into my palms, your blush dripping from you cheeks. Because I see the way you burrow yourself into my chest when you think Iβve gone to sleep, and Iβve seen the way your foot catches on the edge of the woodwork right before you fall.