I could smell your wine, your amniotic sheets of pure stars and silicon lullaby, regenerating my outgrown toes and stale stairs. this head wrap is a lie, if your nights do not talk to mine. You become my pool of waters and waters that kills my dead skin, on repeats. You wander, like a dream soft and tiny in my 4 A.M talks, the moment of collision I see your swapping legs and arms kisses and poetry tears and scars, A mulberry sheet of dreams. I could smell you once again in the words of pillow marks, in the arch of my windowsill. Knitting and defying this entire life, you do it in a pattern. You do it always.