Mornings bring [aches] that
don't go away with time, nights are
restless limbs, cold fingertips. Your lips^-
sunrise. Exhale. An existence of perpetual
sleep, yet I fear to close these eyes
lest your skin touch mine in dreams.
Pause. You'd think time would have
been enough to grow new bones (echo of
crunched snow, blooming sky), but you've been
hiding in the wrinkles of my
knuckles and laughing at me as I
stare too long at old houses, avoid
reflections, count the panes in my
bedroom windows again. Dear.
~
I will surpass you.