on certain mornings i find even our

unctuous foreheads

rewarding

but i have also the

endopeptic

disquiet

in ratio to these soft dawns, and all i am is

seized for days between my throat

and my hot stomach because i

feel

around that tense organ grey whispers of

i don't know what;

loveshine, they're not yours, these snapping bubbles

under my skin,

rather, i fear they mark outside of you, us:

ennui