Tape

I don’t recognize your morning face anymore;
you only show up in my dawn delusions—

I used to call them dreams. 

Move your feet—
Your legs are warm analog 
tape that knows the song 
ready to free fall off my tongue. 
(I know it’s morning—
we’ll both hold our breaths). 

Your back, a home for
my puzzling palm (its lifeline 
long):
a valley with autumn surroundings. 

My other hand is long dead—
you *know* you’re the killer. 

And I know when I press you 
with my numb fingertips,
you’ll whimper the loveliest,
maple-burned tune
that will float past the crack
in my window. 
It is dying for the night
to come again.  

I recall its meter, but not its words. 

I remember promising eyes
watering from evening 
to sunrise

and waking, 
reaching,
realizing they are only my own. 

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8tv3r6/comment/e1knxnp?st=JJ1Z1VCH&sh=b8796171

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8v3due/comment/e1knrwa?st=JJ1Z2BSG&sh=d206713a