Somnia

I fall in love at twilight.
Broad statement.
Revision:
I fall in love with the way
your voice sometimes
lives in the place between awake
and dreaming,
where you talk to me
in an octave far more hushed
than normal,
where your head meets
my shoulder.

It’s like a fogged glass
memory of September,
my fingers running over your hair,
“Drive” playing off the radio;
your cheek pressed to the lining of my jacket,
body shifted from driver’s seat to
lap of passenger,
to a girl who believes for a few moments,
a half hour,
she will be all you need.
Lack-luster friend,
semblance of rest.

When you wake,
you tend to hold people a little tighter.
Your hand brushes theirs in a dimly lit bar
and for once, you eat a whole dinner.

I fall in love with the way
the rain raced down your windows,
“I Will Possess Your Heart” on the radio,
singing softly to your somnia.
Waiting for your voice to fill with sleep,
for your eyes to lift up and meet
mine,
to hear your voice clogged with something
other than a lonely girl’s dream:
to watch your tongue fold over itself with silence,
to watch you break the planes of slumber.

Listening still,
after all this time.
Holding out
for a whisper.

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