3 February 2026
your finger finds each vertebra like they're prayer beads. like you're counting something. i don't ask what. outside, the city is doing its thing, ambulances, arguments, someone's bass line through the wall. but here in this bed we're fossils. we're archaeology. you say my body remembers things i've tried to forget and i don't know if that's beautiful or just sad. probably both. your mouth on my shoulder blade. my ribs under your palm. i want to ask if you'll stay but i know better than to make you promise. the light through the blinds is that particular 4pm colour. winter light. the kind that makes you feel like the day's already given up. but your hands. god, your hands keep moving like they're writing something on my skin. like they're trying to convince me. i almost believe them.
when you trace my spine • Opuss № I