Sing me the lullaby where we collect fallen hairs from the pillows
and sew them into our scalp again.
The warmth of your ear and neck, the tickle of
my fingers slipping under your clothes, reaching
until you chide my childishness and take my cold hands.
It’s like time closing its fist; each touch
a small death—turning a page, the scent of paper, switching off our pear nightlight.
We’re slotted into bed between parallel lines: bookshelf,
row of movies, pillars of light ruled across the blinds—
Now, I hear water running. Is it warming for you? Two drops
of orange extract in foamy milk, the marble coasters hoisting the mug up
as your wrist rolls ink into letters, numbers, symbols.
You’re playing your favorite song in the kitchen, filling the grid-lined notebook, humming
as you wipe crumbs from the counter. I want to dance with you again.
