April Fox

In this time of
tiny creatures
hands like
pale spider legs
trapped in amber, I find my
breath is not
my own, my melted
skin
has fused with his and there is one
cell
screaming for
another
every inch the sun breaks in he holds on
tighter
“mine,” he says
muddy-voiced with sleep

A year ago he marked his skin
with pastel colors
where I slept.