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.