reaches out from feathered blankets and skin that
smells faintly of sheet detergent and clothes four
sizes too large, waves a fleeting "hello" to the dawn
dressed with pigeon colored envy because the sun
and moon haven't eclipsed like this in several long

he was jealous, of you and me,
breakthrough of your sunlight
against my shadow, our skin
meeting, meshing and webbing
before the glare of light spilled
endings and beginnings across
a brown carpet and white sheets.
we came together, eclipsed and
stumbled into the same tide again,
two drunken ying-and-yang fish
swimming in mirthful saltwater under

and sometimes, destined, the shadow
grows too dark for sunlight to touch,
afraid to burn his surface into a
supernova, and only offers to light
the way back home again.