43 hours
Poetry
43 hours
spent knocking out the end of the weekend
the sharpness of the morning woke her
in my arms
dizzy and concussed from hibernation
I repeat as if on a loop
just one of those hours
for it is enough
whether it be us asleep
unconcious
and air will leave our bodies together
and our chests look like naked waves
a dance of flags in the wind
or whether it was the hour before
enshrined with kisses and duvets
where her curled body meets
the tops of my whispy thighs
and the backs of her knees would
flirt with the front of mine
her curled hair would find
its way entangled in my own
and whispering with delicacy
that she wanted to stay there
for that one hour and more
arms were passed around like
plates at supper
over shoulders and under necks
we were the whole cutlery drawer
and drunk on sleep
our kisses land like our heads on pillows
heavy and sinking.
