(no subject)
Some nights, in our old, city apartment, we lay silent in bed beneath the forced breath of a lazy ceiling fan. Outside, cars pulse through streets that branch as if arteries, signs hum and flicker like electric moons. Doors lock, curtains sweep across windows like closing eyelids, the technoflicker of each television tucked away behind cotton & linens. We lay silent and reverent inside our bed, statued and still.
Then, a movement -- a glimpse of your limbs through the sheets as you clumsily kick and flail like a child learning to swim. You roll over and reach for me; the buds of your fists swell into bloom, flowers of sinew and bone. Fingers like petals that brush against my skin in whispered rhythm.
I ask you if you wonder what it would be like to be spun inside this perpetual darkness, to have it swallow you & spit you out. To be reborn in movements that proceed in consecutive taps, pitter-patter of cane to pavement, hands groping for comfort in the midst of hushed vision.
Your hands run over the small of my back, reading my birthmarks like braille. You huddle closer, arms snaking around my waist like vines, your smile pressed against the nape of my skinny stem neck. You hold me closer & dream.