Part of you
    Photo by Dominic Alves / Licensed under Creative Commons
    Photo by Dominic Alves / Licensed under Creative Commons

    "i wasn't sure," you say, your lips

    folding over themselves like origami, thinking

    of the paper swan or lotus flower they could be.

    you're never sure, you're always thinking, always

    reaching across the bed but never

    asking for anything. i watch you, trying

    to identify you, trying

    to locate you, trying

    to put my hand on your chest but

    your ribs are a gate of hot metal.

    sometimes i wish i was you, or part of you,

    or part of july, or part of an atlas,

    or the dusty, fragile pages of a bible. I touch

    your mouth, teeth that look so familiar they feel like

    mine. I whisper into you, to tell you that you are

    just like a tumbleweed, or the hum of

    an old car, or a fist, or maybe a hand clutching

    onto something. you tell me about your mother

    and i tell you about mine, and what side of the

    kitchen the sink was on when i was growing up,

    and that there was ivy that grew on the side

    of the garage.

    much later, sleep comes, and we don't do anything

    to stop it. in the morning, i'll look at you

    and see myself.


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