Inchoate

Four a.m. traffic beats,
cotton sheets sweat octane,
thoughts crawl
inchoate
from head to head
unspoken.

We can't speak.

Your body's paper is wet through;
smells of you times a hundred.
Your breath hits my face and
I don't know where to look.

Supine - you're locked in the octane.
Faces on the ceiling
look like us, I don't know
which one is me and you,
is me or you.

Littered with darkness,
Your eyes found my skin.
You've seen it in the ceiling.
I don't know what to say.

I hold your hand knowing
someone's held it before.
And someone else
Will hold it again.

Later the blinds buckle,
awash in light;
the room deliquesces,
running on empty.