Skin: absorb/repell
on/off

He lays on the floor, reading--his back angled over a combination of elbows and pillows. Nothing short of usual: the living room, but I'm picturing a fireplace. Turning the pages of a wartime memoir (Vietnam, 19--; the bloodiest battle), while I pretend I'm small enough to fit between his shoulder blades.

I sleep naked on the nights that I miss him and I want to feel his skin. Few and far between, and I reason the sheets will suffice against mine. My legs dissolve as I lay, melting; cotton fiber absorption.
Sinking. The draft from the window kisses my forehead, and my last thoughts are of words that are letters apart.

The closest I can get is hovering.

My father called to say he'd been praying for me.

I don't talk to my friends like that. But we'll stay friends.

I have nightmares about people I've left behind. The curly hair. The hands that couldn't open my jars.

I screamed all night, damning the cracks in my plaster walls,

forgetting which bed I slept in.

My friends never made curfew. I hid behind the couches they shared.

Walking in and out of dust.

Five years I screamed.

I know the mice are in the walls, refusing to be caught.