it takes one february morning when the sun
forms you into stained-glass and shadows,
between dream and wake, and my head on
your strong chest becomes something
impossible to believe in before breakfast -
that I can still taste rain on you, an echo of
my skin on yours. last night your body was
ice that I held in my mouth for as
long as I could, but under daylight now,
no habit or memory could remake you
to be as solid as you were.
strange how you come to know someone
after they've spent a night next to you,
translucent, translated, succinct, and sweeter,
the way an apple turns from green to red
against one's lips. how you stood up
and kissed my shoulder lightly, it reminded
me of how a crowd of birds will take off,
in murmurs of restlessness, to the north or
wherever birds go. when you shake
a kaleidoscope, it changes but stays beautiful,
when you shook me last night, did I change?
am I as beautiful now as when your knuckles
came in contact with my skin, rough hands
and ragged breathing? I could be the most
exquisite thing, skin like porcelain, no scars
that have scratched the surface
but you still won't stay, that's the lovely thing
about mornings under unfamiliar covers;
there is no regulation. you don’t have to stay.