sleek vertigo

Between new green sheets you turn your back to me while resting on a left elbow. You are not saying much to me tonight. When I ask what is on your mind, you eye the book in my hands and sigh. You turn your attention back to project you are trying to hide from me, I begin to smell the fumes. Eventually I put the book down, but you are already gone. Where it is that you go leaves me lonely, more so then your away-weekends in NYC.

I scrawl that fact in blue ink on to a scrap of paper and slip it into you pocket. Next time I will write it in script on the skin of wrist. You will get the message on your return from the island where everyone reclines and begins conversations in the jagged ticks of the feet and hands, and breathing sounds like the word soma spoken.

I turn the lights off and crawl up close to your right ear to say your name.

I say this because at the moment I need you to know.

I say, "I can't live this far from the water any longer."

You take a moment and answer with a voice husky in sleep.

You say, "baby...we only miss the ocean."