Filament

Sometimes the muse lays her head down on your pillow, and you cannot sleep beside her. Your fever runs too high. You pace the floor into the early morning, shitty with ideas.

Sit by your bedside in the feeble light, tracing the lines of her body, again and then again, until they start to form a sort of mantra.

With the shape of her ribs humming against your eyelids, lay your body down—still fully-clothed—your nose pressed hard into her neck. And breathe. The scent that sleeps beneath her shirt. That potent musk of slumber.