i-am-the-writer

there's no shame in the way fingertips go away in the numb underneath the weight of the worried head of a sleeping significant other oh we kill it like the plague under covers we're undercover playing cops and robbers and the last relieved sigh of a long day sneaks down to our ankles and ties us to the bed. a worried head, blurry visions of a far away land where we are young forever and where we may not win but the wicked always lose; a sleepy siamese dream, a romance that cuts so deep how can we feel this way when we've lost all feeling? how can rafters up in the ceiling sway like the kites we run on the bay side