isnt it curious how your fingers fit perfectly between each of my sclerous ribs, or how your breath mimics mine with belated accuracy
(count each breath and youll run out of fingers.)
dont you remember the fairytales?
(and they both lived happily ever after, until after ran out and the monogamy became as non-existent as the magic.)
you were never one for myths. with discerning eyes, youd plant kisses along the ridges of my back
across my shoulders
and the hollow beneath my jaw, questioning my pastel skin and every involuntary blink.
I am not a myth. Id breathe.
Even when my back wore naught but jutting wing bones, a street of spine and a field of freckles -bare of feathers- you werent religious enough to use the A word. But behind closed eyelids and incoherent sleep-talk, you were thinking it.
gesticulating to your chest you said youre in my heart and your blood composed amongst your cheekbones deliriously.
but the x-rays showed nothing of the sort.
(maybe they mixed yours up with anothers, doctors do these things you know. Ive never been very fond of the second-hand air and recycled smiles)
you tell me everyone dies, but you can never prove it.
(youll never die, God loves you too much- I can tell.)
sometimes when you sleep I talk to you. one day you spoke back.
among a disarray of incoherency and lullabied whimpers was repose.
thats when I realised the hardest part of sleeping is waking up.