your morning breath ricochets off my cheeks, you're still drooling dreams into my pillow my warm, bulky down comforter hoarded around your petite frame as i spit my sanity into the ceiling fan i glance down at you your face is somewhere else, painted on a canvas i move a lock of hair behind your still-sleeping ear with a fluid passage of fingers and wrist my thoughts pumping into the margins of this dusty room
you are a man's sister and another man's daughter but all mine last night in the bathtub beneath the skylight my grandfather built as southern stars too thick for constellations sang into our laughing faces and again on the kitchen counter top my **** made of steel and flint neither of us minding the extra weight our sweat became fire and water ripples as we stumbled into bed like birds confused by the strobes of spanish candles forgetting to fly
sunrise dispenses glassy light deep into my mouth as i dance across a wet morning swaddled in awkward feathers and you appear as a statue in wine colored velvet struck by light from the bay window