Tuesday, June 14, 2016


In the morning, when I lie slack
and not quite yet awake, sometimes you

rise, early and neat, and you and place your simple
lips on my cheek

quickly before you leave. I know that you do,
even though I'm still

mostly asleep—because, later in the day,
that place on my

face will remain changed, marbled
with this charged blue feeling—that I used to belong

wholly to you, that at some earlier point,
I was a defenseless

and sentimental object; not a separate
person, but an asset

of yours, a prized possession—
like some specific

part of your body
that you've always been proud of

or a faithful stuffed animal—but also
because later, I'll feel so much heavier

than those things, massively slowed
down with the feeling—not that it was

only a dream, but that it all happened
too long ago.