We sleep in blanket forts. Our palms are tree canopies, our finger sleep within the leaves. These crooked rivers converge between our smiles touch. Bedroom stitched constellations, open your chest wide and dig inside, show me the story of the comatose panther who couldn’t stop tonguing the gash inside his cheek, or show me a color I haven’t yet seen so long as I promise to forget it immediately. Spread my hair about the pillows, let these vines trap your fingers like spider webs, tap out the story of the wolf and his cotton candy insides and bubblegum marrow on my chest, call me something new. But there are houses, there are aquariums with minnows that wish they could be whales, and there are cupboards and drawers, and there are alcoves that breath broken statues while a lions main devours the color from my face when I try to speak your name aloud. I don’t dream about you enough, but it makes my mornings a little less awful.
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