pillow talk
By: Aislin Carpenter
You are sleeping.
Adrift in your own head; always, always.
It’s a good look for you,
Loosens your dimples and wipes the worried wrinkle from your brow.
But I never sleep.
My mind flames, fraught with purpose
My eyes stretched open for fear of missing
The only light that I can see.
For I am waiting
I waste away at my kitchen table, in my chemistry class,
Each moment a calculated passion play.
Pantomimed pleas for the slightest glance, and
Sickening, saccharine lurching at the thought of warm hands.
Always, always.
But Desire is a futile thing
All-consuming, unfulfilling
Met only in diamond-peppered blackness
When you want me and I am there.
And so you lay, unaware of Me.
ou do not know how I dull my luster
To make your breakfast.
How I rot my heart
To rub your feet.
How I douse the spark in my stomach
To make room for you.
Past flesh and blood and marrow,
Past a place to rest your head, a pot to pour your tea
You know me not.
And yet, you fill me.
And yet, I am here for the taking.
Always, always.