i.

the weather is my skin for days
and i came late again for fabric salvage
(graphic selvage)
this table is hating the sound of my keys and tori amos
the same way im liking the sound of you asleep last night and last last night
when sleep is
a rope tied on sails of fleets of stories
of juvenile girls slashing their wrists like changing dolls' dresses
or like i, waxing my legs on saturdays
or a young seacow in the bay of your deepsea blue sweater
and your breath on my forehead
the water, wind, and peace in between
every space my fingers could trace and wander.

ii.

i've been trying to trace you like how you do in studio classes
but without rules or grid lines
that might scratch or slice your eyelids and cut your lashes
when the fly half open to ask me what the time is
you sleep like crazy
at times you don't move like a kid fearing getting caught for faking a nap
and it makes me think of what you've been doing in your dreams
do you see where my hair splits when the wind blows?
do you catch me catching you thinking if my skin is flesh and white or ochre and sienna and white or that if my ears turn vermillion or scarlet when its cold?
or do we still talk
of bosses of your new playlist and complmentary colors and leads and lines of
herakut and charmagne coe and big burgers and last night or your deadlines and kids and mom and dad and all- channel viewing or my latest scratch or misadventure
i watch you sleep until i watch myself
from my eyelids pressing against each other
while i feel my toes curl
owning every you
that you dont see when you are asleep
you dont see when i am next to you before losing ourselves again
to mornings that eat us (together with our nights) all up