Sweat

The sky is a swath of course fabric,

the loose stitching bleeding in light from other worlds, other suns.

Clouds, stained scraps of cloth stuck to the felt-board midnight sky,

obscure the pin-prick stars.

The air is hot and stifling; it has grown stale beneath this ubiquitous blanket,

this ageless expanse of fibrous weave.

Summer humidity, the product of centuries of mindless respiration and regurgitation,

trickles into my lungs.

Despite the viscosity of the surrounding atmosphere,

my breathing is nervous and quick.

I need your head on my chest to slow the rise-fall

of these ribs, to keep me

from evaporating into this oppressive evening.