I lie with my lover sitting on my breastbone.
Actually, she's two inches to my right. Inches like a Mason Dixon line.
Inches so far apart that cross-country texting seems closer.
Me, rigid in my thoughts. My un-enhanced eyes stare straight up at the ceiling- an out of focus darkness before a movie flickers on. There's too much focus on focus, and on laying aligned on your back.
There, with your arms by your side like the end of some yoga class, like the last repose inside a coffin. The symbols of the shapes we sleep in.
I turn to curl: that knee-crouch-blanket-hug of the fetus.
Every time we sleep-
birth or death.
Birth or death.
I sleep under you,