The morning slowly cuts my ties to dreamland,
visions dissipating as my sleep-laden eyes
open to daylight. It is a ******, our greatest
enemy, gratingly kind as it greets
us and peers in on me stirring in the folds of your

arms. Once again, the hours have eluded my control
and soon I must become a slave to the
the menial and routine. Dread creeps
in my stomach, contaminating my calm. Stubborn,
I linger, my fingers pressing into your cotton-soft

skin, always comforting to the touch. I am swathed
in repose and security, as my body contours
into yours. Longing to linger battles my commitments;
evidence of your hold on me. Reluctant, I press my lips
to your cheek, softly groaning as I wrench myself from

your strong frame. Goodbyes with us never seem
to get easier, and the days always lag. I constantly
dream of coming home to crawl atop your body
as you pull me into you, the keeper of my dreams and qualms,
unabashed witness to my tears, my immovable, ever-faithful

bed.

I dare you to play my heartstrings,

strong as spiderweb silk.

Your presence runs through me like

rusty barbed wire,

a screaming putrescence.

My heart corrodes and heals in waves,

taking and giving.

I let your name gather dust.

I watch the crackled paint details peel,

marred remnants deteriorate.

I feel you forget me like a childhood memory.

I release the heavy syllables of you into the sky,

each sound and memory sailing like dandelion dust,

waiting to land and grow in safer spaces.

"Wht r u doin’?"

Thinking of ways

to connect her freckles

to his.

Letting his emotions

slip on the clothes of

grown-up ideas, loose-fitting

and tripping him stumbling.

Comparing her eyes

to frozen blue sky.

Feeling sleepily

sundered in two.

Wanting her to wear his eyes

for once.

Wishing he could tell her

the truth.

The usual.

"Procrastinatin’, u?"

i want to prose you on the kitchen table

with my smile melting into your own.

and i want to prose you as colors of the sunset

awash your skin,

preserving our moment in amber.

oh,

and can i prose you in the morning

before we go to work

and sleepiness has

            not quite

fled from our muscles?


i want to prose you while your fingertips

trail from

my cheek

to my hair

to my shoulders,

effortless like water

trickling down the length of me.

i want to prose you

roughly,

            gently,

     quietly,

loudly,

taking our time,

lettings details fill themselves

between the hours.

i want to prose you in the dead of winter,

with the fire crackling like a whispered secret,

and in the slowest molasses days of summer,

when grime and sweat clings to flypaper skin.


i will prose you ‘till we are speechless,

and sleeping tucked between the pages of a masterpiece.