counting the times, simply.

it's twelve thirty-seven, and you're dancing.
swaying in the wind. reaching for the colder air.
the room is spinning, thick with noise
thin and stretched, pulling beats apart.
your legs get lazy,
your eyes get heavy.
it's easier to move when you can't see.
counting the times, simply.

a few seconds.

subconscious. i feel my mouth start to curl.
you're telling another animated story about some startling situation.
i could laugh inwardly all day at your cleverness.

inwardly.

you wrap my fingers up like presents. i can't feel mine. but i feel yours.
you're the wind that bites at my collarbones, the satisfying sting, the burning feeling when you warm up.
when you glance at me, i want to fall away.
when you stare at me, i want to hide in you.

you're the perfect hiding spot, the space under the bed, the anticipation of being found.
i want to be found.