Just a cup. That's all it is. You can pour things out and still, it keeps getting filled and filled again from an invisible source made of pixels; grains of sand and sunbeams. This is my head on a rainy morning when the pavement clinks like static on the radio.
Your hand is an invisible breath ghosting across the back of my neck, on those long nights when I awake and roll over; reach out for something solid, catching pillows stuffed with goose feathers, catching ink-stained sheets, catching silence, sometimes even catching the soft curve of your spine. Sometimes even catching the sounds you murmur in your sleep; catching like Johnny Bench during that spring training game back in sixty-eight. Catching like your fallacious, pseudo-contagious hypochondriacal self-diagnoses (you're always convinced that a small discoloration on the end of your pinkie finger could be the beginnings of something fatal).
Just a cup. Just a breath. Just a life. Breathe me in and pour me back out; combine our contents and create something new, something wonderful. Then add vodka. You told me I was going to regret this. You told me you wanted to be the only one who grabbed my butt. You told me I made your soul feel like forever.
And sometimes when we fall asleep, forehead to forehead and nose to nose, I forget to feel awkward. So when we breathe, you can share my lungs. And when we run out of breath, you can share whatever's left of this heart that you've started to stop.
