Would you please let me
dry my fingers on
your thighs as you undress
me in the bathroom where
I used to faint on
the sound of steam fogging
up my reflection —
my vision?

You are here now,
running tears down my chest
and it is harder to
breathe with one lung for
the other is being held
by your lips,
breathing me in.

I promise I wouldn’t tell
a soul of your run-away
bones; but only
if you’d let me wilt in
your lap and bathe me
with your wet face
and rent me for a night-in
with my arms and
my arms only.