Something in my chest seems to be breaking
As though its foreshadowing misfortune.
But there’s a bit of optimism
Pumping through my veins,
And my weak little heart is refusing to home
The size and strength of a tragedy.
I’d rather shrug it off as desire
And lie in bed for a few more hours,
Blankets over my head
Recreating scenes with your hands
And my body.
Your skin and my hungry lips.
I spend my days and nights here,
Collecting hopes and projecting my mind’s film reel
On the back of my eyelids.
Seems to be
The only place
I can rest assured.