These things have become artifacts since the last time you've touch them.
I model my daydreams around the crinkle of linen sheets, hoping that one day I'll escape and find a place to meet you.
I've searched for similar contentment in worldly things,
but nothing compares to the nights where you cradle me into you big cactus arms.
I long to feel the fleeting tickle of your breath.
Or the way your calloused fingers trace my back into liquid vertebrae.
Your hands are my favorite.
They keep my soul incubated and my body busy.
I can't repel my rippled heartbeats when you are nowhere to be found.
I've cut you down,
I miss your mop but you've cut it since.
It's shorter and my fingers can run through it like a salt water race from my eyes to my lips.
I miss your hands against my hips.
Irregularity is not for the codependent.
I would never dare a lover to become a time traveler,
because when your heart fills with heaviness it can really weigh you down.
I've found an occupation more suitable.
I decided to become a night guard,
preserving the memory of where our bodies used to sleep.