When you roll onto your back and turn your face away I am caught by how beautiful you are, and staring, I cannot help but think what a joke reality plays, that we can't see ourselves from these tender angles, in this blue light, with the setting sun winking through the eyes of the blinds. Asleep you are even less aware of the metered, measured poems that sing along your lines, the simplicity of your ankles crossed, the narrow longness of your feet. Beyond the frank ridge of ribs the soft convexity of your stomach rises, edged by its thin line of fine fur, and the whole of your body gently jogs to the pulse just beneath your skin. My hand rises to touch you, to smooth the spike of hair at your navel, to brush the angle of your hip. Instead I put my fingers into my mouth and bite them, and let you sleep.
I wonder if you ever watch me sleeping. And if you do, have I ever looked half so lovely?