Vulneratus Non Victus

In this cotton darkness
we sleep and dream of graceful fingertips,
nail polish flaking like dry lips;
they kiss his back when cotton lifts.

Maybe her prints will stay this time,
become permanent as the bubbles of ink
suspended in his skin
which form us, three lions
and the bodiless head of a horse,
leaving us with the impression
of her presence, an echo of her touch.

Or maybe if we were less permanent,
we could seep out of this corporeal prison
to remain upon her fingertips, who so
slowly crept around his collarbone and
over his shoulder blade to tickle us,
naive to our audience.