heat map

I think last night
we were the heat
of being –
fiery orange bodies,
the only living organisms,
engulfed in a sea
of cold midnight mountain
ranges and century-old
barns, still standing.

I think last night
when my eyes
wouldn’t close,
the owl in the skeleton
tree outside the window,
— after you’d fallen
quiet and statue still,
chest rising like steam —
cooed and purred
my eyelashes feather
soft and magnetic.
The only dream.

I think last night
when you pulled me
into a white knuckle
grip at four a.m. after
rolling over
to find me again,
waiting wide-eyed,
our bodies were
hot collision fuel,
newly discovered;
flag bearing explorers.

I think last night
when you held
my neck like
a delicate open-
beaked bird,
a flight of secrets
kissed my ear–
an echolocation of
unsaid words.
I climbed under the
shelter of your shoulders;
safety for delicious
dead sleep.

And when the snow
out the window was
a glitter of heartsick
blue dust again,
we knew that we woke
up nothing but

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