Rapport

You are protected by hand lotion -
the smell punctures the air like a needle,
and sews me to you

but I misplace my mouth in the darkness
and taste not the moistness of your seamed lips
but of your clean lower eyelids

For a full fifteen heartbeats
I can't figure out why the soft skin
below your eyes should be wet.
I find it freakish, and stumble
to unstitch you from the night