Sleep Talk

Danielle Walczak

 

My roommate said we have conversations in our sleep

I tuck my legs around themselves

curing my toes around the place where yours used to be

wishing my blankets emanated heat

in caves we were echoing from.

 

But that was years ago,

One week ago.

 

622-

Up stairs covered in car floor mats

we were grand gestures, guitar strings,

summer night cool.

I lied on my back the first time you kissed me

I knew it would happen.

Your lips were softer and smaller.

 

Stillwater-

Sumer stagnant water, sleeping

I didn’t drink coffee before I met you.

Cool is grass under a blanket

warmed by the sun.

The first time you breathed on my neck

you had creases on your red cheeks

 

622-

Winter, naked — you cracked a window.

Boots still by the door making puddles

socks on.

The room was big — space

between small.

We were contact, with eyes

with my fingers, your belly

was softer

than expected

The 3 p.m. sun was still melting icicles

we cuddled with our fur hats on

your belt stayed on the floor

 

305 B-

In the bottom of a bunk bed

we were a nest to mend broken pieces.

To protect against hair straightener-fires,

Bus crashes and most of all birds.

We were three invisible walls

one real.

We were arms that fell asleep holding the crack

together.

 

17-

We were running from a space heater switched off

to covers, down — like clouds — or

the first time I realized the sun is

warmer if you let it touch you.

It rises sooner in the winter

and closer.

You can’t sleep without a fan on.

Here I realize love is a person who smiles when they sleep

Love is pulling me closer when I’ve been awake for hours

Love is your pillow-hair always pointing north.

 

63-

We were closer but angrier

the small blue room had more edges and

you caressed mine as I brought out

my knife.

At night I was sharper

But the train and sun rattle by every morning

scaring me awake through a window we shared.

you pulled me closer.

 

95-

It’s another summer

you were heavy on my shoulder

a sleeping sweaty dog in the back seat.

You, nauseous but warm on my mind, worn out

like I had driven it a hundred times but

this felt different

like it always does.

And I wondered how much longer

you’d stay asleep for.

 

63-

A bigger room meant

A bed with new blankets and a dog was safer.

Lava-laden wooden floors

meant a barrier between us

and what I always wanted to be.

We opened the glow sticks — after two years it finally felt right .

It’s funny how open the heart is in crisis,

self-protection is a life jacket.

 

You were a boat.

Me, the water.

 

I hate putting this in the past tense.

 

As we sleep talked I wondered how, without sinking, we’d let each other

inside.