We’re harmonizing
in a bed without sheets,
I don’t know what I’m singing
but it doesn't seem to matter,
because we’re making up words
so that the music will write itself
and now I’m struggling with keeping a beat.

They’re always cold
and they don’t want warming
because the wind will be
even more bitter after.
They can hold their own;
I can hold my own hands.

I seem more appealing
when there are pillows in the room
and that's okay
as long as I can still touch you,
taste you,
hear you,
smell you,
see you,
you can be as irate as you will.
I need these 5 senses
to ensure that you are here,
that you are real,
that I'm not in love with
someone's shadow.
This is when the week days seem to last forever
even though it’s only been that long,
you’re already literaturely beautiful
making me seem poetically challenged
while I’m watching you draw
wishing I had the skill to just trace
the outline of your face
and your fast hands

Give me your head,
give me myself back.