she eats and spills, half on my bed
half on her dress; at least she's fed
after a round of smoking sticks
mistaking whispers for sounds of the Feds.
she sees the world through a macro lens,
dispensing wisdom that makes little sense.
her nostrils flare, her eyes go red
she burns up like a stick of incense.
and now she snores in a gentle rythm
her lips, both chapped, frozen in a hymn
her bare arm clutches the blanket around
her chest: in darkness, beats, without a sound.
how i wish to place my lips on her
and run them down her every curve
and unravel her secrets, one by one,
but for the risk of waking her up.
her thoughts must go, first up then down,
like the twists and turns of this pathetic poem
first in a smile and then, a frown;
of the wonders of her dream - her face informs.
she heaves a sigh, disturbed by me
she knows, in sleep, of my mischief.
and pulls the blanket overhead,
to give an appearance akin to the dead.
in a thousand nights of passion and lust
have not lovers felt a similar rush
as i feel here, as she sleeps near
i kiss her limp skin, exploiting her trust.
