I'm waiting for someone to count me in.
You can see a faint candlelight.
I look away 		turn to it, check
you have that white chocolate
and the heat surging through it.

Falling for you, or at least in front of you,
I take your hand in these last nights and wait.
How silly it all seems, lines from special-k
and the floor with blood and honey.
It's always the edges that get blurry.

Perhaps - if I may hazard a simile -
while the sunken lounge swallows me.
Your head like a mixing bowl
gentle on my arm, like breath that stirs
stars suspended beneath the ceiling.

There's no escaping physics or
the unbearable rumbling of the sun.
We must wear our ornamental
emergency siren and blinking high sensitivity
fashions of cruelty.

In this new composition I work
the spaces between breaths,
a library of untranslated prose
leaving an eerie absence
that might have been engine or radio hum.