In the middle of the night
The sheets, crumpled underneath you with crumbs, flakes of dry skin,
hair. You will lay there, still, staring at the moonlight, wishing for a
breeze. Your sweet sour skin, your moist flesh, your calm breaths, a
country song.
A bug will skitter up the thin white curtain; you
will not flinch. You will hold onto this moment as long as possible,
hoping the dream does not dissipate.
Just hours before he pressed
his body against yours. The air was still and dense. You listened to a
train in the distance, mournfully wailing, and to your heart, beating
inside you until you thought it might jump through and touch his rib
cage.
"I heard a lullaby," he said, with a rich loamy voice like soil, like the inside of an abandoned mine. "It reminded me of you."
"Tell me again," you turned toward him, heat on heat. "Tell me what you heard."
Every fleck of color in his iris, every whisker, every pore you memorized. His voice reverberated into you, touch on touch.
"I heard a song," he said quietly. "It reminded me of you."
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