Sometimes I dream of leaving

the prison of my body

and entering his. Even though

it’s just another prison, it doesn’t matter. Entering

that network of flesh, breath, glands

and sighs. Drinking a coffee

at the kitchen table, looking at myself

in the mirror, using his little

razor. I don’t mean a whole lifetime.

I’m happy with a bolt

of rain on the window. It’s true

that when I touch his hair or his shoulders,

I tumble inside and lose all sense

of myself – but it doesn’t last long,

I’m spat right out, put back in my place.

Even so, wouldn’t it be beautiful

to sleep on his pillow all night.

To set off on the little thread of saliva hanging

from his mouth, as if down a slide

towards a different light. To escape, escape myself, that’s what I want.

For a whole weekend, and just come back at night.