breathing slowly

Poetry | isabella fiore

hold me closer, not very tiny

not very dancer. i dissolve into

our couch after a hell of a day;

you watch my frame crumple

from the kitchen counter. glass

of wine in hand, your lips twist

into a smile as my eyes threaten

to close on me.

i am always sleeping, tangled in

the covers wherever i can. you say

i am the cutest then, but i think

you just like it when i shut up. 

sometimes, when it is late and i 

am more awake then i should be,

i watch your chest move in tandem

with your soft breaths. you are the

most beautiful.

that sounded creepy. honey, i am

a walking insomniac, spending 

half my nights eyes wide open and

the others so dead you couldn’t

wake me if you tried. you sleep

like a very obedient baby, and i

resent you for it. instead i watch

you sleep and hope that one day

i could try to do the same. 

here i am talking about myself

in an ode to you. my fingers run

down your spine, bony divider 

splitting your shoulder blades apart.

you think about inking this

canvas every time i get a new piece,

flipping through the books at

the tattooist but too indecisive

to paint on yourself. 

you are cautious, and i love

this the most. when i ask

if i should dye my hair pink

you scoff and offer to buy 

the bleach; then you hide

it until i forget about my 

fleeting desire. the very

first night we met i wanted 

to take you home, but you

gave me your number and

texted me in the morning.

you still text me in the

morning, even as we wake

up side by side. i rush out

the door with lukewarm

coffee, shirt half buttoned

up and hair slightly damp.

when i get to the office,

hair still slightly damp and

coffee spilled somewhere

it shouldn’t be, you leave a

message on my phone to read

when i take a breath. you

are my breath.