This pressing of bodies:
sticky palms from where we held the counterweight to ourself; then lips,
lending each other breath and broad trunked chests,
heavy with the silence of evening song.
You enfold the Matryoshka-doll-me.
We are a duet, playing the night game
in the forgotten worlds between owl-time and breakfast.
We murmur each other’s names: dot-through-dot
and-dotted by the mmms of our notes.
A sharp clunk and my rattling head,
full of moths, fireflies and deadlines, wakes me.
Six-am dawn lays her fingers across the bones of your face.
Your feet, out, bare like dolphins against white linen waves.
I trip and fall.
You stir, grab and hold me into the nook,
the slotted jig, the saw of your neck; puck the air with your mouth.
I reach forwards, kiss, and curl up behind you
like a question mark of us.
