lain in, thinking about 

the soft roll of hair and 
gentle exhales and 
soft, pressing folds 
filled with tiny collapsing sounds
sighs, held on high
near imperceptible if not uttered 
direct
and deep down 
and deep down
and deep down 
like the brush
of my bones
where all the gaps between could disappear 
where we don't need to know where one begins
or the other ends

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'you never write me back in the cold and sober howling winds of daylight, where you're in danger of being seen. you never write me when your form cannot bleed into the formless, rooting in, burrowed deep into the ground, wrapping ahold of me tight, feeling rather than seeing -- much unlike this stark and starchy daylight living. You only write when we re both tasting death by the precarious and cu...

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