Moment of stillness in the faint, pretty
shape, arms and fingers, paint from
the walls had snuck within
the ridge of your nail, the corner of your eye;
I’m sorry if I always scratch but it’s easier
to close the curtain than the space
between our genitals. Silence all but for duvet shuffling
pitched differently whether in light
or dark. Moon or yellow
kitchen beam florescence. We were more alone
than we knew. I cupped a hand to you in waiting
as it dripped back out; it made me
feel patient, a kind of pride. The bed was still made,
but already damp from the cold. We stayed
quiet and the sea found a way
to listen in; wet as a kiss, a kind of ear,
it dreamt of pulling me around in circles.
It dreamt it pulled me deep below
until my edges smoothened over,
until I was a ball, and then it choked me
back to world. I walked you home.
The surface was still, and pretty.
The clouds pulled in that calm.
It was neither sunset nor sunrise, but distant crying.
I pulled a tissue from a tree, and soaked it all away.​​