|
{big spoon} t. kennard You next to me are not the ship, rather the incessant rocking, exhales crashing against the shore, and when your breath whistles through your nose a different seagull screeches. You shift position, shaped like a mobile, a constellation submissive to night I get up to write something down. You move. Your legs are three daughters: Alkaid your feet, Mizar your knee, Alioth in your hips (a hundred times more magnetic than earth). Your body ticks with each tock of the clock, a slight dance to summon unconsciousness. "It's the only way," you say "I can sleep," the only way your breathe becomes the sea. |
