I wrote with my pen striking paper before the shadow of my arm did

Gently my elbow sits on the corner of the vanity, pictures of people I struggle to remember straining the image of myself, taped lazily to the centerpiece mirror

The ridgid wrist sits, atlas tenfold, the weight of imagination makes microtears in muscle and reality

The sweet spirt of her embrace holds my head high - high enough

And my eyelids open, just to catch her, and maybe see her jump between words etched on paper

Sometimes her fingertips flutter between my eyelids, keeping me barely awake

That image of her persists, like stone that doesn’t mind withering into sand

An annoyance, gets into my skin and irises

How sweet it is to be annoyed

I imagine her leaning over my shoulder when I write

She asks me questions as wisps of her hair brush my neck

“What do you want to think about next”

“Does it remind you of me”

“What do those pictures mean, if you cannot recall anything?”

And so I persist because I am never enough to answer these things

But I will try even with sand in my eyes

“_Many mountains die here”_

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_I write _

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_“So Sisyphus rolls them back together, with glue and sweat”_

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_“And tries again”_

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_She sees this and laughs, she says I’m pretentious _

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_I say I know, I try not to be _

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_She asks if I’m tired_

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_I say yes_

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_She starts to leave _

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_I say don’t go just yet_

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_She says she never will_

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_I say “Amidst this chaos, can I ever peacefully wilt away in your arms?”_

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_She calls me silly _

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_I chuckle, and _

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_-_

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_I sleep, and through the glint of the mirror, I see her over my shoulder _

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_She writes it down for me._

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_Somewhere, somehow_

_At night you can see glint _

_Diamond in the sand _

_Loosely resting _

_Shining anyway _

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