For a while you sleep
with the stain of my nose bleed
on your pillow case.
I am moved by your indifference.
You forget where
the drop came from.
*
From within, feathers
prick the lining: reminders
of an impossible softness.
I want to shake them out
and make the world
tremble white.
This creased cotton membrane
contains nothing
but tender stuffing
to cushion your head. Still
as you breathe, I think about
downy hairs shivering.
*
The accidental mark I left
reveals the illusion
of the body’s boundary.
I keep quiet about the surges
because I cannot turn myself
inside out. Surfaces of
sleep, linens, skin
concealing invisible waves
and glowing circuits.
Viki Peitchev 