My hair, voluminous from sleeping in six different positions, redolent with your scent, helps me recall that last night was indeed real, that it’s possible for a bedspread to spawn a watershed in the membrane that keeps us shut in our own skins, mute without pleasure, that I didn’t just dream you into being. You fit like a fig in the thick of my tongue, give my hands their one true purpose, find in my shoulder a groove for your head. In a clinch, you’re clenched and I’m pinched, we’re spooned, forked, wrenched, lynched in a chestnut by a mob of our own making, only to be resurrected to stage several revivals that arise from slightest touch to thwart deep sleep with necessities I never knew I knew until meeting you a few days or many distant, voluptuous lifetimes ago.
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