Awake.
Every single grassy rustle
every single drop of scented cream
rubbed into my skin by lamplight,
fragrance now whispering faintly from my pores,
the strands of hair loosening and slithering out,
to roam the contours of my pillow
that dip down like glacial canyons
where my face presses like a finger into clay--
I am sensate,
I am aware,
I am awake.
The sun is racing
like a sandstorm constructed
of glitter and fire, shattering off of ice
across the world, somewhere--
someone is beginning their day,
the morning sharpening blades on
the songs of birds,
who are mindless to
the way my heart pounds
flattened against the mattress,
for I am a captive bird between these sheets,
tangled in too-warm blankets,
and in the sun-sweet blackberry brambles
of my thoughts.
They pluck at my clothing,
scrape along my skin,
fruit crushing between my teeth helplessly,
and I close my eyes--
I could be blinded
in the pursuit of the intoxicating
bleeding sweetness.
The sun pounds its path around the globe,
And I will begin my day in a matter of hours,
in a quiet place here,
with a hot sweet mouthful of coffee
shuddering as it plucks the strings
of the harp that is my spine;
the air will be cold,
rippling up my skin as I fumble with my clothes,
and the sky will be beautiful--
it always is in winter.
I must sleep, I must--
The day comes, whether I want to or not,
and the light will filter through my window,
casting an accusing glance at my body
still tangled in blankets,
my thoughts still tangled in the briars
of you.
I must let go of this,
and must give in--
I cannot sleep,
I am too much in this world,
my fingers clenching rasping folds of blankets,
my heart pounding, quivering like the air
before a lightning storm,
and I rub my cheek against my pillow.
It contours to my face, and is imprinted by my perfume
as I would bend to
and be marked by--you,
I cannot sleep
I am too much in you.