monument

slow

creases weaving in
a slithering parallel
ashtray smoke
the two lie oblivious as together
the touch of hairs cross-fiber

each others thighs
hands speak in large breaths
shadows of their representatives
'this is real' says 'everything is perfect'
extremely vague yet so very present
everything seems to make sense
even though it always has

distant chimes
a soundtrack for your collarbone
the small of your back and,
skin between eyebrow and ear
my freckles and tattoos
your tanlines and curves
we dance with no step
and no music
i hold your back my palm pulls in
together

and for once
in, a, while,
nothing needs to happen