Questioning fiction with itself, I like

the way you quiet.

            I scold you for rape jokes while I watch

Annie Hall. It’s problematic


 

                        like

when I find your body hair on top of mine after

fucking. I know -
            your skin is there, too
I know.

                        With mine,
            the skin of your belly
 

                        on mine /

                                    can only ever be on.

 

 

This becomes the bed from a movie
                        that you only know
exists because the mention of sleep.