Poetry | Journal

The bed is extra warm this morning.
That’s not just an observation though it’s more
like a wake-up call, not unwelcome,
a completed night, I open my eyes,
there’s a rush of snow bounced sun in the windows
and you, lips slight agape, asleep.
Tiptoe my gaze to the clock just out of sight, I squint.
My grandmother lost her vision this year,
fading into the blanket I’ve pulled over my eyes
I wonder about your family, and replay the little glimpses
I’ve seen beyond this room
the way we chase the details in dreams if we don’t hold fast,
the way the sheets conform to your nude body and mine
hides below clothes I stole from the closet.
My socks are kicked towards the door. My toes dangle over the edge.
I glance to the bottle of water I left out and wonder if I could reach.
You roll and wrap your limbs across, pull me in tighter
and under the veil of cotton, I don’t fight the warmth for a moment.
I tell myself not to assign meaning to an unspoken movement
and embrace the weight on my chest like a kevlar vest
because this is the Vicodin rush,
the nitrous gas shiver flooding my cheeks rose
I glance to you, wonder if you know you’re smiling,
and let myself return to the dream.