Time does not pass in your apartment.
and it’s not willful ignorance
like standing still in the hallway,
to watch the shadows move around you
this is better.
because time does not exist in your bed
sinking into blurs of pillows
I become only the outline of my body
softened through the sheets
the sole recognizable clock being the shifts of our spines
I woke to your lips on my back
again, when just our toes were touching
and again, both of us barely conscious
sleep still clinging to the parts that matter
lips and eyes and hands that have not grasped at anything at all since…
still half in that dream, I murmured an answer to a question you didn’t ask,
“Isn’t that a sphere?”
You are confused but I wrap my legs under you anyway
and we are a circle for a second longer
allowing our tired mouths to stop time,
before I have to start it up again;
gulping down a glass of water
willing my limbs to make it home
the other one
abandoning an imprint, or more, on your mattress
my fingers weave with an ex-lover’s,
the one who’ll never leave me be for long enough
and day breaks,
in uneven eggshell fragments,
messy and cold and with too many cracks,
day breaks into my open palms
though, I knew I could only escape for so long
sometimes I think it breaks me in two,
is the other half in bed with you?
