Dawn. The sea breeze,

salt-fringed, rolls in through

the opened glass doors,

its damp fingers sifting

and touching upon

the cravings,

rent and folds

of our shared bare skin,

It’s like home, you say,

and this makes me dig my nails

in deeper,

like a feral cat, just learning

how to regulate and express its affection

through its claws,

Like a poem, is what you say next,

and I lay my head on your chest

and stay there

no longer the boy I was

the one who used to be terrified

of hearts,

ones belonging to others,

my own,

something about the beating

freaked me out, i.e.,

when I’d place my hand

over my own heart

I couldn’t bear it

it felt too powerful

too real

too something

and I’d quickly withdraw

to spare myself both the effect

and its cause.

I am not that boy anymore.

I let my head stay on your chest,

your breathing a lullaby-raft

upon which I feel safe and secure,

held, and soothed to no end,

I allow my ear to openly receive

the music of your heart, its rabbit-beatings,

I listen, when you tell me

this is all there is,

I listen, when you giggle

at my off-color remarks

involving salt, dust, bones,

honey, and you,

I listen,

when you laugh

at my riff on junkie clowns

staring down nostalgic maraschino sunsets,

and when I ask you

to tell me something good,

something sweet,

and you speak my name, three times, softly,

I listen,

then watch

as you begin to cry,

from open wounds,

soundlessly.