i've lined his sheets with
"tell me more"
"please don't go"
"lock the door"
and "pull me closer"

we've sewn
phrases, unintelligible noises, and whispers
into the mattress
one great cross-stitch
spread across the box spring

he's etched my skin with
"take your time"
"can i stay?"
"that doesn't rhyme"
and November Gray

we've read
excerpts, classics, and unfinished plots
among the sheets
words: a vehicle
to take us anywhere