our story, unwritten

sometimes,
you look like you did that morning
when the sunlight ran its fingers
through your hair
and the story of your skin
unfolded in front of me
like the pages
of our long, lost history.

chapter one,
the sun billowed down
to expose bare backs
hiding beneath blankets
and a mute desire
broke its silence
and brushed up against
the marrowbone.
in the soft, warm glow
of a blurry morning,
we burned
until you turned the page
and peeled back my memory
like dead skin.

but sometimes,
you look like you did that morning,
when your shadow gripped me
as tight as your fingers did
while writing our story in the deep
echoes of the night.

i wish you could see me crawling in the dead space, struggling to write a sequel.