we are sweating bullets

it is divine

that's corny
and non-descriptive
a bit cliche,
i know

but we are waking
up in poems

watching them
drip
from
our sleeves

and onto the new
knit jersey sheets
grandma sent
for christmas.

it is senseless
to get out of bed
for paper
or pen
or lipliner
if that's all i can manage

so i hold your head

you nuzzle into
my armpit

i imagine
you as a baby
rooting for your mother's
breast

it is endearing

your arm
finds the dip in my back
presses

it is too early
for sex
or words

we are not ready
for either

besides,
your body
to the left
and a bit on top
of mine

is beginning to feel
like
love.

i hold it,
the moment

hold you
and fall

quietly back to sleep
while poetry
busies itself

re-writing
familiar sonnets
on our sheets.