there are pillows surrounding three sides of me,
making me a peninsula.
I convince myself you’re one of the walls.
I let myself fall asleep in your imaginary arms.
I contact you, knowing I’m needy,
and don’t ask for a single thing except a response.
I just want to talk.
But for you that is too much.
I fall asleep in empty sheets,
with extra pillows,
and pray for the embrace of someone.
My entire body is smooth. All soft flesh
and imperfections that I hate a little less when clothed in more melanin.
My legs stretch out before me, stinging with the bite of sun.
I meet cushions instead of your lap.
I fall asleep
in a bed containing one body, knowing I can’t even keep myself warm.
I wish I was curled up against some tangible love,
who hates my hundred pillows.
I want to twist my body to face him instead of finding a wall.
I don’t want to be landlocked,
or triple water-logged.
I want to be an island,
a bit of paradise,
but only in his arms.