identity of insomnia
We’re awake at 4am.
He grabs a fistful of my hair.
I am naked. Shivering beneath a single cotton sheet.
He can’t sleep. He’s smoking cigarettes.
In the dark.
I want to tell him things.
I want to tell him
His hand on me. Anywhere. Controlling my breath.
Cradling my expression.
Making promises as the sun considers rising.
One hour later.
Fingers barely touching. The shape of his back.
Soft. Hard. Grooves of ink. Tattooed cuts.
Moments are passing. With me.
Without having to be anyone else.
His heavy embrace wraps a proposal.
Speaking to me in another language.
Lips whisper to shoulders. Down my arms.
The back of my neck.
Formless shape of affinity. Fluttering.
Sliding up my calves. Across my thighs.
Turning me over in dawn’s violet-grey kiss.
The taste of his fingers.
The scent of his shoulders.
The weight of one look.
‘I can’t sleep.’