Come here. I want to tell you how much the moon
tilts its’ soft spine when you close
your eyes and dream of nothing but living sober.
I once saw light reflect off your shoulder
and that is when I knew you were a starving lover,
wanting someone to lick your bones if
you were ever cold in the dark.
And even in the daylight I saw your veins plump
and blue, shaking when you spoke of wisdom.

I love you more on Sundays
because you sleep in past 3 with your hair
on the top of your head and your hands
tucked in between your thighs.
I say yes — yes to everything you ask of me
because I want you to come to your senses
that it is okay to ask and want.
I want you, I ask you to stay.
Will you bend your contours and melt into me
like the moon does for the sky?
Come here and feel naked in the palm of my tongue
as I taste you without salt and sugar,
bear your heaviness onto my stomach while I
share a language with your mouth.
Come here and be fragile,
so I can feel your vulnerable.