it seems i've made a habit of slipping into borrowed spaces
the moon pulls her in the deep evenings. she is breakwater; she is the crashing of the waves
my borrowed space: arm's length; in a dark room his heavy hands press, the close of eyelids, the gentle clap of wings
his memory is bruised with her. his face blooms sadness when i touch
borrowed spaces: he looks through me
an animal of grief with his paws in the river; i spread into the spaces between his fingers, lick the lines of his palms and he calls me beautiful, pushes his feet into the riverbed
i spill into the gaps between his knuckles; fumble with his pain, kiss. i crumple in his balled fist, nestle in the crook of his neck. i become soft where he is broken, fold, meld. a quiet brook, the still water
always: she is the rising tide, she is the mighty sea
borrowed spaces: his body, and all of my skin
