in a moment such as this, i entertain a fleeting thought
so dense that i am overwhelmed.
where she asks me to hold her to sleep, and i think i could quite simply die here and not mind it at all.

i wonder why i’d think such a thing, but it’s not a thought to dishearten;
it’s an instance of peace so grand i could settle in it,
limit morality for its suspension.

but she asked me to write on her back,
so i began with this thought at the base of my tongue,
and drew her a letter on her back.

she asks me, ‘are you really writing something?’
i affirm, ‘yes.’

she asks me what it is.
i tell her I’m writing her a letter
but when she wants to hear it i refuse.
i know i’ll confess it to her one day,
but today i’d like it to stay on her skin.