between meals

my hands are soft around your waist
your dreams are too precious and i can't make a single sound
and i know i must wait till morning
or maybe dinner
to hear the close narrative
i do want to wake you up
or eat you up
but i wont even breathe loud
and just then i slide out of your borrowed bed
hoping i moved you hard enough to break the thread
i am looking for some company
because i drink the quiet of night like freezing water
that grabs hold of my veins
clenching my teeth, i will greet you the next day
with no air in my words
and i wont stop looking around.
i cough an innocent cough and step out.
mounding a colossal heap of things to do or delay
one more day is always required to do anything worthy anyway.
thinking about nothing else
but about all the dry and cold lands
i can think of
and your body there
dead like it is
you see nobody and nobody sees you
a dark day
and a bird from the books you read when you were little
and no sound
a dead dancing friend
and a huge mount
whose top you have seen
but never reached
some wind follows you
i wonder when will you decide to tell me what happened
how things went
who was who and the number of times you felt like killing yourself
but you see i have to wait
for the real close narrative

we will eat to the talk i always get
and thats all there is to it really.