warm winged spirit

In the light that gathers through your window, shades ribbed over your sleeping face. I see an innocence that takes me in, unravels the tightly wound weaves of skin. Underneath, in the places you keep locked and reined in. Nooks and crannies of space, the silence between words caresses our meaning and finds us speaking more than words could share. Always bare and breaking into smaller pieces, bite sized and swallowed up into memory. We are young and yet dieing, each moment sliding into darkness. Can you see inside the webbed glisten of thought? Past the porcelain, vesicles, the veined warp of human flesh to the warm winged spirit that has no name and doesn’t try to be anything. Our hands twine, sheets over our heads and in the fleece kingdom of bed we build our foundations and push our pasts together. You are uncertain but I can find the hope behind your rounded lashes, lids falling into sleep with my body pressed into your shape. You are overflowing, a fountain of emotion pooling around and bubbling up, steeping my visuals with the energy that you continue to drip from you edges. These promises we make with the exchanges, with our lips moving in slow circles, expanding only to breath. Even now, I carry the idea of you, a silvery slip of image down to the core, wanting now to know you more.