She laid herself across the skyline
on a bed of old memories,
settled in the morning fog.
I'd like to live here.
I'd like to spend every afternoon,
wasted and wasting the daylight on
those stupid freckles and hotel bedsheets.
I'd like to live between your shoulder blades,
always graced with a twisted arm and
a heavy palm pressed against my back,
getting softer by the minute.
I'd like to live beneath your ribcage,
shouting hollow Om's at the vaulted ceilings
before I slip into your old t-shirt,
slip into your basement, and slip out of sight.
Dear friend, don't get up.
She keeps a heavy hand and an open promise:
sleep always on the horizon,
not ever at home.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
She laid herself across the skyline
on a bed of old memories,
settled in the morning fog.
I'd like to live here.
I'd like to spend every afternoon,
wasted and wasting the daylight on
those stupid freckles and hotel bedsheets.
I'd like to live between your shoulder blades,
always graced with a twisted arm and
a heavy palm pressed against my back,
getting softer by the minute.
I'd like to live beneath your ribcage,
shouting hollow Om's at the vaulted ceilings
before I slip into your old t-shirt,
slip into your basement, and slip out of sight.
Dear friend, don't get up.
She keeps a heavy hand and an open promise:
sleep always on the horizon,
not ever at home.
