your word.

(click to listen)

she can hear a murmur, after a faint rasp

and you are talking in your sleep

just moments before the truck belts squealed

and for less than a second, she had forgotten you were

pressed firmly against her back,

your arm draped across her neck

for those miles through sunken states, the pilfered

softness through the nights

all stacked, shaking, end to end

but there has to be an end

then, your hands on her shoulders

gently tugging her hair

under the pulse of bass and content, warm

with too many plastic cups of gin

connected through strings to her deafening sight,

it is all tied to the baggage, the phone, the bed

she is cursed with knowing, trying desperately

not to meet your mind’s eye

and you try not to calculate the hours

before she flies out again

© february 12.2012 heather brager