the littlest spoon

roberto santiago: the littlest spoon

I slow my breath to sonnet. Breaking
lines to near-rhyme the rhythm of your own.
You’ve been sleeping only a few minutes
but hold me just as close
as when we were both
bathed in whiskeyed-exhales
and too many lips.
Each time your breath hits
that part of my neck
I anticipate the next.
The spilling-warm that vines
down my spine. Coiling
into the spaces between
each vertebra

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