Whisper to me the dreams you have while you
sleep       awake.
Now it's so late,
and it's the rattling of the pill bottles, the TV saying

Time's arrow only marches forward.

You touch yourself.
I touch myself.

I watch you through pixelated screens and we're shooting a film where the protagonist falls in love with a girl that
has                    no                      body,
but a nose underwater, and a heart in the microwave.

You have a ***** thing in your head.
There won't be sweat-stained linens to wash.