The lights off in the house,
children dream warm and smell of sweat.
I lie awake, your
parallel—motionless,
listening to the dark.
Outside, crowded maple trees
soften themselves and glisten.
Weeping, they unroll their leaves.
Your breathing descants,
I aspirate my counterpoint,
the darkness within so full of longing
and without—sap runs
wet down trunks.
I recall your skin like the memory
of a dream I cannot remember
having. Darkness, deep divide:
The space between us
is no metaphor—
 

Joshua Scott-Fishburn
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