uncovering my emotions,
I sit in a plume of words,
washing over my senses,
clouding them over with potential
and destruction.
you sit in your straight back chair,
legs stretched out in front of you,
before you hesitate and put your feet
firmly on the ground.
my words are like the fan drowning
out your demons,
but providing no extra insight,
just white noise.
I talk in my sleep
because the words don't pass me in my
subconscious.
they rule over me, sometimes guiding,
sometimes hindering.
a pillow, sleeping aid, ear plugs,
conveniently placed on your nightstand
whenever I sleep in your bed.
our fingers touch, and our shoulders lean toward the other,
wondering if we will follow our bodies' lead.
but you roll to the other side and I mirror you.
strangers in a bed built for one,
occupied by two.