I'm staring at the screen trying to write about sheets and curved calves and the arches of backs. But nothing's coming out. Instead I'm thinking about trains and waiting for a phone call. Instead, I'm staring at Christmas lights. And thinking about decorating your leg. When these sheets lick the curve of the calf. The arched back. I. No. It's not there. Still nothing's coming out. I want to feed you with my hands. Stare at you for a thousand hours until I forget there are things called hours and time bends and folds and delivers us []. I am this hand on the back of your hand. Your skin to skin mutation. I am the mouth of your mouth when it laughs. I want to fold you like paper birds. Wings. Wing me. Fall me out windows and doors to fly and go. To let me out. To let you in. Go. go. Help me outscream lightning.