Days are heavy, thick, and physical.
objects exist and separate,
matter builds then breaks apart,
and I am trapped, in this tight skin
to do the same.

Night is transparent, loose enough
to hold you black, and white,
and body-less, boundless
connected
with unwavering hands.

I ache to keep these moments here
but all things die,
we let go.

I wake to feel the weight
of sun on eyelids,
skin on muscle,
pulse on bone;
the grinding scrape of thought
against thought.

So I lay back down,
count the drops from the leaking faucet,
until the night again.