tie

Last night I dreamt about your favorite tie;

The sun was cracking through your window, which was opaque because of the heat. Morning smelled like pastries and your skin was like a backlit alabaster dream next to mine. I wanted nothing more than to lie there forever with your fingers wrapped in my fingers wrapped in my hair wrapped in your arms in our sheets in your house that I'm calling ours for a second. Hearing your lungs pull for a few more full inhales of oxygen before your eyelids would flutter open and push away serenity, before you would let the tolerance of being a soul in the soulless world weigh down upon your crisping shoulder blades, I could tell you were dreaming of something sad.
I let my lips touch the corners of your extremities, right on your collarbone, right on your cheeks, right on your wrists, until your furrowed brow smoothed out. You began to move like consciousness was stirring in your mouth and, at the same moment, the birds outside began their choir.

You made a noise.
I said good morning.
You kissed me in return.

We sat there for a little while, the sound of your musical city warming up like an orchestra. I sat up to watch the clouds turn on. You watched me.
I tripped over your favorite tie when I was climbing out of bed; the far end stuck to the desk that had caught it when I ripped it off you with my teeth the night before. You chuckled from behind me and I walked away like there had been nothing to see.
When you called me back, I had your coffee in my hand and your tie around my neck and the stains and bruises from last night roped across my skin. You kissed them like they were art. Since you made them, and you're an artist, I guess they were.
Hunting for a wiser frame, just another time of day, you pushed out of bed and disappeared, like you did in all my nightmares. You were gone before I could tell you I loved you enough to wait there all day.
I held onto your favorite tie and fell asleep on your side of the bed.


When I woke up, your tie was gone.