Sheets crumpled at the foot of the bed,
the white, silky ones.
Pillows thrown here and there,
mismatched, warm, sleepy.

A foot across my chest
toes twitching from dreams of running
biking
swimming
adventure.

One arm tucked under his chest
rising, rising.
Another arm twisted,
chubby palm on my thigh.

A soft snore
breath of lemon and honey and milk
sweaty curls on his forehead
like baby hair.

This is how we nap,
tangled,
all curves and lines spread on the sheets,
like a complicated math problem.

What is the angle of the body
as it grows away from yours
if time is twice as likely to
speed up and rush away?

What is the slope of the belly
once you are unfamiliar
with its intake and output?
What is the distance these feet travel,
when they no longer fit into your palm?

Does the plane of the back change
once it’s not yours to examine, heal, caress?
When the open-mouthed laughter
the tiny, square teeth,
the round cheeks
are not yours to kiss anymore
will your own mass change?

Will you become shapeless
all negative numbers
and undefined lines
never meeting in the distance?

Will there be holes where
once soft hands rested
unashamed, unaware
that they were right over your heart?