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.
