Sinking Into Your Island

With your hands pressed firm against my hips
I can feel the brittle angles of your fingers
Nails pinching at my skin and leaving behind fog

You don’t like the clouds pouring out of my mouth
Don’t like the way I push mist into your clothes and collarbones
You tell me the thickness makes you sick
Chokes you better than my forearms do

I glide my palms down your sheets
Carving ravines for you to melt into
Clear rivulets of you beading off my ribs

I think you should do something to my eyes
You should reach up for my face and lay
Fingerprints over top my closed eyelids
So I have no choice but to stay cold and latent

Your start to dissolve into my neck until there’s
None of you left, nothing but my limbs and your blankets
The shadow of a round blue face left in my memory

River-water rises around me, stranding me here in your
Utterly overcast bed—you never taught me how to swim
And if I pay close attention while I’m groping the pillow
I can almost pet your hair