falling asleep to the 
sound of your voice,
you say she's going
away to collage, and
i can, i can see her.

my mattress is made of 
glass, suspended over
an infinite hole of depth.
infinite depth that would
consume me, could consume
me. but i could never
consummate the 
marriage. could never
validate the way he felt.

him, with his softness
and coarseness, and 
solidly jelly body. his
muscles, and sweat
dripping on me. him,
with his blank eyes,
bland ideas and boring
finality. him, with his
softness. too much
like a baby. i'm not
a mother.

i had this dream, 
lying in rest under
the cotton duvet, 
suspended over time,
where i left him,
for you. i was walking
down toward to the beach, 
and walked back up to home.

i saw you later that night.
we held hands secretly on
the couch, after educating 
ourselves on the hula chair
and tv hat. i had never
felt so secure. lying in a
cotton hammock 
above eternity. 

the fibers could break,
dropping me. but you
keep the strong, and you
never drip sweat on me.