On the Couch

Our breaths unite an air
I’m not sure I should taste

broken sleep, the heat and
thinking over — two-thirty —
four — and thinking — six-eighteen
close countenance, feet parallel

You’ve seen my eyes both
here and gaping into you, and felt
my hand just inches from your head

hair strands rolled between
my fingers not disturbing you, wanting
to disturb you like the reality
you end up dreaming about