You hear trains whistle in my laugh and want to ask me where I’m going — how to get there.

In the middle of the night you kiss me hard. Underneath blankets and sheets, you whisper that a world without me is no world at all — that sometimes when I sleep too long rivers run dry, or stars fall. You touch my face. My hair. My neck.

I wonder what you see when you watch me;
how you could call me beautiful — and mean it.

You try to get closer. Your hands span the track of my ribs like wheels that were made to fit them. Our bodies press and give and coalesce. Don’t you know I’m not going anywhere?

Don’t you know I’m staying here?


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