You are the back of my neck,
you trickle down me like a flock of sparrows
migrating south to my navel.
When I inhale, I spell your name.
The freckles on my shoulders
are shameful little spots (I get them
from sun-kiss betrayal) but
when you hold me, they sprout feathers
and I can fly.
I soar to the instrumental.
Your fingers lilt on my mind almost as if
I were made of ivory
and you played me to paint the sky–
a sunset of harmonies, silhouetted birds
made of black keys.
And yet we never touch; I am,
after all, across and not beside–just a footnote
on your path, in your book
and these lonely lips implode, bite
themselves, drawing blood, painting
last night I had a dream where you lay against me
and I woke up with your memory
on my hands, and to this very hour
I can’t come clean.