we likely have nothing in common, you and I
except the names of organs in our bodies and the way we toss
and turn at night. when darkness weighs down
on me I wonder if you are a sound sleeper, if you
dream like I do of humid summer days when your shirt plasters
onto your body, cold sweat breaking into a crescendo,
reminding you of unconvincing arguments you used
to feel pleasure when you would rather break.
but I deceive myself.
we likely have nothing in common, not even the names
of organs in our bodies because our tongues taste different
syllables, mine as foreign to you as water to oil.
when I stretch out my hand in the dark
your breath glances not off my fingers as they say
the breath of lovers will; I encounter
an inevitable body of marble, glowing darkly
like an old forgotten dream sent to haunt me
with beautiful impossibilities.