When the day is over, we crawl back into our spaces.

While others wrap themselves in sheets to ward off the cold,
you swaddle me until I am blue, and black, and you
I am the color of you.
(which is a strange thing to say
since people don't have colors--
then why do you?)

You are the shade of dead lilies strewn
like lovers over a grave. No you, you are
the hue of the dawn that peels itself from
the arms of the earth that stretch across
everything
just to hand the world to the sky.

But your color is different tonight.
I recognize the color of aphids trapped
on windblown dandelions. I could count
the wisps of a dazed summer that wandered
to sleep in the nebula of your hair. And your hands
have grown into flowers, and you give them to me
and I

don't know how to water your hands.
So I pull you in by the stumps of your arms
and whisper

"I want the rest of you."