58

when you are sleeping at night,
i slip in through your throat,
move your lips to the song of my poems,
each gentle letter of my name.

each night, i stir your stomach,
ripping open all the red i can,
so maybe your sadness will bleed through these open veins
and drain out of you.
be gone for so long
that by the time you forget about me, you would have forgotten this too.
decades.

for decades, for decades, and decades
like water splitting open a rock,
i work slowly,
but surely.

next time you hear that brushing sound in your belly,
you'll know that i am alive in there,
eating at this rawness.

it is not much,
but this is something i can do.
if i could give up this much of myself to you,
and you to me,
our feet will be warmed, everything can be alright
when we are sleeping at night.