Our bodies are comfortable
after the anticipation,
no longer interested in shadows

painted on the ceiling. They stretch
like legs sliding under the linen sheet
of the sky at midnight, and then disappear
into the darkness of passed headlights.

You are soft as I imagined,
wanting to be absolved by morning.
I am assumed, flesh rising, watching
your body dance in flashes against the dark window.

Here we consult the stone, create
a problem to solve:

Is there a place on my desk for you to fill like a cup,
one that is worn and willing
to hold off the morning,

or a light without shadow where I can see it,
one that is an antithesis
to the questions we are asking.