There isn't a hum compatible,
littered with jet planes and sirens and door slam salutations.
I escape slumber.

Maybe I've just forgotten to close the window.
My mind remains an accessible outlet,
attentive at worst,
a meticulous observation; noticing the slightest bit of dirt under the nail of your index finger.
You may not even trace the outlines of my cheek by the time I have swam deep inside the caverns of your collarbone.
I have to convince myself not to drown.  
Cue curiosity.
The fabric hanging from your body does not prevent me from taking a photograph of your anatomy,
I perfect the direction from which your strength begins.
An indented landmark in your sternum, located in a space that creates an appropriate resting place for a traveling palm.
                                                    I should remember to close the window...