Insomnia

I think there’s a word for the moonlight pooling in your clavicle. I think there’s a word for everything, but I can’t always find it. And this is how my hands get so tired — not from holding yours — but from flipping dictionary pages so quickly you wonder about the window. I never meant to keep you up, only to keep you. Can I keep you? How many years have I kissed you? I think there’s a word for time, but softer, something that sounds like growing — our roots tangling and pulling close. From the bed, you say, “Love.” And oh, I’ve always made things too complicated. Love.  So you help me up and hold me against your chest. “Love,” I whisper, “The word was always love.”

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