when she sleeps in your bed the first night, she doesn’t sleep –

she floats above sleep the whole night,

stiff as a board, ears so attuned to your chest rising and falling

to match it well enough you won’t notice she never fully gives in

a few hours earlier, she nestled her head on your shoulder

eyes memorizing all your freckles and faded tattoos, her fingers tapped softly on your skin

your hands felt like dulled sandpaper and they never left her body –

you rubbed the small of her back rhythmically until you drifted away

her dreams were minimal that night and in the morning, when

she popped up too quickly, you made her eggs and avocado wrapped delicately in tortillas

she could feel you lingering all over her –

in her hair that you grabbed,

the small of her back that you sanded…

she let the sounds from your speakers fill her ears as

she pulled on her lips that you kissed just moments before

and even as she sipped coffee from that handmade mug you picked up last year,

she still tasted your breath in her mouth…


©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved


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