unholy wars against our eyelids,
against nightly paralysis, nightmares,
the nightly cold,
against circadian rhythm;
together we die every night by each other's hands,
and we ressurect ourselves early mourn, in each other's arms.
such a wrinkly-sheet kind of sameness between our palms,
and every night its my body your love embalms,
home in each and every one of your worry lines and qualms;
a glass of water on the nightstand kind of familiarity;
a traffic symphony similarity.
