by Kristen Walsh
In the pitch of oncoming midnight,
my eyes are closed, my breathing slow.
The air that passes through your lungs
is deepening, becoming rhythmic.
I cannot match it
no matter how hard I try.
It is still too fast for me.
As the moon makes her way
across our New York City sky,
your body drifts asleep.
I am infinitely aware of the taste of the air,
the smell of your room, the feel of your sheets.
Your body begins to wonder
if it has fallen into oblivion.
Your fingers twitch within mine,
as if to pull away.
I hold onto you tightly, refuse to let you go.
This bed will hold us here.
I am afraid of the soft ticking of your clock; it is an omen.
Sunlight will soon penetrate our finite dreaming.
And I will again be alone.
I write this poem beside you
in a fit of desperate inspiration.
