This is how it starts:
quietly, like a disease
that just wants to hold you and have you,
whispering under your skin at night
and hiding behind your eyelids when you rise.

It is only a matter of time, now
the dreams have begun,
especially the one where
something is playing with your heart,
cold let’s-call-them-fingernails ticklish against your aorta,
and saying
(in a language you’re sure you don’t speak)
that it would be so easy, so simple
to love you forever and ever and ever.

Already it is sleeping in your skull,
curled tenderly behind your eye sockets,
renaming your faculties and reclaiming your ideas,
staking every other breath
for the sake of another pulse,
a warm syncopation steady on your offbeats.

And it won’t be long
before you start to leave the door unlocked,
ask it if you can ask for more and
still sleep soundly,
before you hold it under your tongue and
wish that it would talk to you all day long,
which is just before you realize that its voice
is your own.

hood

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