Leaving the television remote on the bed makes it harder to resist turning it on. Just like putting your number in my cell phone makes it harder not to call. Eyelashes litter the bed and I hope they're yours so I won't make unreliable wishes. Wishes would be disappointing anyway because a human breath couldn't blow them from the entangled threads. It kind of seems relative; me under the blankets wishing someone's breath would blow me awake.
When I lay on my side I mirror your body right in front of mine. My hand under my pillow, your hand under your cheek. We create a warmth between our bodies; your unconscious mind telling your body to keep breathing, my heart pumping out the sweat. The scapula's puncturing out of your back make you look like you've clipped your wings and I know you'd leave if flight was that easy.
I've been waiting until morning and when it comes I feel like a child, lonely and artistic. Your eyes finally open with the bright sunlight climbing up the windowsill behind you. I ask you if you have ever stared into the sun, and you say yes, every time you look at me. Because I am your sun, your revolution, your blinding light and glorious warmth.
As I watch the sun (and you watch me) I blink my eyes as if I've just woken from a coma. I lose my lashes I blink so fast. With your finger on my skin, you write to me, "All action is of the mind and the mirror of the mind is the face, its index the eyes."
We lay out in the sun like trees in photosynthesis. We eat and drink and metaphorically consume the sun, the environment, each other. The grass bends to our backs or our backs bend to the grass.
All this time we've been nature and all this time we thought we were civilization. But when it's just us, it's just solid concrete, correct and advisable.
The sun radiates but we feel no heat; we only feel the itchy grass and gracious insects. The contours of your face and my face are obscured by this beaming warmth and don't exist. Our bodies are monotone and hardly stand out against the bright grass. We are altered human beings, trying to be what we used to.
Snapping pictures with our fingers and invisible cameras, you capture me saying, "Art is born of the observation and investigation of nature."