in the afternoon of my waking dream
slots of sunlight from in between the blinds wrap around you
and shimmer-shake warm and white to drive away the last vestiges of winter.
we lay like cats clasping from fingers to toes
and i expect our bones to grow and wind together like twisting vines
any time now.
thank god for the precision and choice conveyance of language
because without it, you might actually be able to tell what i mean.
what is there to say, other than
i am in love with your skeleton, some idea of you.  it makes me anxious.

it's the golden ratio at the golden hour.
i lay anesthetized on your bed-
i don't know if you'll find any particular use for my tangle of veins and arteries,
but i've left them out for you all the same.

evening brings the clouds and we're still entwined,
shifting about in languor, yet somehow restless.
rolling overhead comes the first of the almost-summer storms.
the air is heavy-hot, the clouds dark electric,
and our bedroom backdrop is lit by lightning.
the radio is still on in the other room
and we are serenaded by the anxious buzz of the severe weather advisory.

night falls and we lay in your bed and attempt to fall asleep
against a uneasy lullaby of road noise, alarms, lights from passing cars
in the dark i run my fingers over your bones.
your lips on my forehead are the baptism that i never had.
we dream of quiet places that no-one cares about except us.

tonight we are sequestered in restless inactivity,
but soon we will reclaim our rightful place
high above the rooftops
and deep beneath the streets.
with our pant legs rolled up and our cameras slung about our backs,
we will delight in adding to our list of transgressions against what is expected of us.
wind will whip at our hair and jackets
as we stand precariously in the highest places.
we will traverse the immense and forgotten,
and light up the cold concrete dark down below.

but for now, i will wrap myself around you and dream through the thunder.