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I’m jealous of your sheets. They get to feel you stretch, watch you wake up every morning. I’m jealous of your pillow case.

I want to be the air between your fingers, that fills your lungs, that oxidizes your blood. We can pass through time zones and fly across country borders. We can catalogue the way the sun looks from here and then there. We’ll write a book about it, we’ll work together. Procuring, editing, deleting our thoughts on the transubstantiation and the gleam of the outer orbs. I’ll be the pages you write on; the one whose skin is rewarded with your etches. Eventually your marks will hurt, and we’ll look down to find blood on my skirt. Vultures will start to swarm above, and, as they pick away at the remainders of my flesh, I will be perfectly content.

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