he turns his face away from mine; a can of cold drink on a cold night. we sit in the quiet of waiting, waiting for takeaways, salt crystals forming in the night's every crevice like many evaporated sweat beads; skin anywhere you look for it. his lips close in on the lip of the can. i cannot be with; i cannot be without. even in sleep's black wealth, even in a dream, red with frost— your mouth, your lips, your nose, your hands, aflame, covering them.
Featured photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash.
