Up with you at five a.m. Sheets
never made good walls. I'd watch
you pull the Bic, down once, up
twice and tap the cracked ceramic.
Calloused fingers pulled the
Old Spice left to right, over the ears,
behind your neck, and landed on my
cheeks. Sandpaper palms wedged
beneath my jaw, and the sting of
alcohol closed my eyes.
I wouldn't let you go until
you curled my hair like Superman's,
which matched my Underoos,
so I could fly from a chocolate-
brown couch onto the beanbags,
which were actually clouds and
no one knew my hidden identity.