If you fell, asleep, into the water,
I would wake you. I would cast my eyes downwards as you dried with a Persian rug,
sneaking just one prying glance, only long enough to feel that surge of tightness in
my shorts and say a quick prayer for loosening
I would mumble something as your hand felt for leather and shout and move back
and forth my thigh and not sleep and spend the night with your wrists painted upon
mine, ears melting into my chest, breath pining for the sound of open doors
I would arise in you and you would make not a sound but still you know that
together we played the song of the family even if we could not yet shape all the
chords
I would see you off with a dollhouse smile sewn to my face and retreat behind the
curtains to search for a speck of solace in the clothes that you wore in the
wintertime, waiting for me to come
If I fell, asleep, into the water,
Would you awake?