In the dark we might.
The same three feet for hours.
If I were a painter, I would charcoal
your outline. Slow. Careful. Each
freckle, each hair.
Both crave and refuse light.
Back to chest we stand over the bathroom sink.
Your chin on my head. My color returns
pale, tinged with emeralds. Above me, you burn
Is there a candle I can’t remember.
You lead me to the still damp sheets. Shiver.
Shiver. Before we
comet the night. Awaken dead stars.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 47 | Spring 2016