coals die down

quite mysterious, i'm
suddenly driven mad by
the harsh lines of your brow bone
and the shelf of your collarbone.

on wednesdays, i wake up
over you like dead water
sticky with mosquitoes on those
moonless nights when we're

conscious of penetrating darkness,
when our whispers mix and we're
forced into oblivion selected
by celestial cycles. sleep.

so i wander to your eyelids
and let my gaze sweep like full-moon
hands and fall back asleep, lifted
up by the drawing of your breath.