after we made love, we fell asleep, and made love all night. your forehead near my open lips, calm in sleep, in exhaustion, our sweat from the first hot summer air, weighted with smog, with the insufficiency of necessary photosynthesis.
it doesn’t work like that, not all the time. often athletes, we stretch ourselves after marathons, walk it off to reestablish our footing, descend to the regular slowness of heartrate, delegate the intimacy to sweet nothings, review the tapes at a later time.
but last night we crowded corners of each other, the sheets, threw our breaths across the room to make space for our murmurings, intertwined fingers as if forever might be found in a pinky swear, in all our unspoken promises.
i imagine skin and breath to dictate our dreams, the traffic out the open window, the sea, the hum of the fridge, the beehive, but last night your breath on my collarbone was your breath on my collarbone and my hand on your neck was my hand on your neck, and i was not alone, in sleep, nor in dream.