You lie in my bed, the perfect paradox – your body still with sleep, your soul chasing dreams across some random universe.

I watch as you float away on the delicate moonlight, the arms of night carrying you into some secret inner space.

Even as I hold your hand and whisper for you to stay, I can feel you slowly disappear.

I am alone now, here in the night, where not even the weight of an intimate kiss can anchor us together.

I feel so empty, so anxiously fragile, so at loss.

It will be hours before you return hme, the dust of some cosmos settled in your hair, a collage of shredded fantasy fading from your eyes.

So while I wait for the dawn, I use your resting body as a journal, covering your skin in ink and poetry.

My words blanket you in a softened quilt of emotion and imagery…until I run out of flesh and prose.

Then it will be my turn to sleep, serene and comforted by your awakened presence, while the warm water of your shower turns my thoughts into an inky pool of passion at your feet.

Copyright 2010

2 thoughts on “CHICAGO: BODY OF WORK

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