He collapses onto her and exhales
Resting his forehead on hers
She eases back and sighs
The crown of her head, almost
Against the wall
Just tipped over the headboard
He always goes first
And she finishes by swallowing
Expectations, she knows, are a fantasy
Are fraying rope
If she goes she will be like her father
If she stays, like her mother
If she stays down the middle
Present, but silent
She will be like God
Maybe her inaction, her slowed blinking and breath
Could lead to a closer inspection
His collection of hairs, moles and freckles
Of inferences, of twitches
Obsession, then worship
Constantly rearranged and arrayed in his thoughts
Plucking petals
He’ll bring adornments
Maybe consider, then blow her
When she’s finally ubiquitous
Constant like dandelions
He’ll wade through her ominous silence
And still find her omnipresent
With a need to pluck the right string
Until its frayed rope
