My mind hums with color, the smell of salt water out my window. I take two Ambien as sacrament. Water, not wine. Wait for sleep. My body grows heavy. Muscles like cold clay. They pretend to move. To hold my bones as I think they should. Mouth of sand. And in my left hazel eye, a corona of wheat fields. I am heat tonight. And I remember the multitude who love me. You say get up. I say come back to bed. Let me rest my back against yours. Let’s exist in these threads of suffocating gravity. Your hand on my hip. My hands reaching. We can be here for a thousand years. Not rested. Not tired. I’m sure my sternum is stone. You bring the mallets, the chisels, the picks. Let’s unearth me from myself.
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