Sometimes I imagine sun shining in this place I want to sleep, a place where I roll over- and roll over again.
Sometimes sleep is all we have when trying to get back to the most comfort that we know.
Almost like a place where you throwing mattresses over your head and blankets and north face sleeping bags like a cocoon.
Sometimes I like to open all the windows so my breath is cold and visible and I can bury myself under the sea.
When I think of her, I wonder how her hands move and if they can snake though my blanket mass and touch me hot like fire coals, touch me like bathtub water and candles.
She does,
I breathe and watch my breath move
Languidly like French dialects and the mouths of woodstoves
Bundled up on winter
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