twin-size bed

rainfall beneath a pillow & elbow
& elbow & elbow. before we go to
bed i pull off the covers to look for arrows.
let's not hurt ourselves. 
i have slept the last
5 years in twin-sized beds, one arm
beneath the pillow & one arm down
by my side. that's just how is.
& 3 times sophomore year i shared
a bed with a boy who left the window
open in january-- we woke up ice sculptures
& now here's you. i fall luscious & un-asleep.
we wake up in our separate childhood
bedrooms where the rain pulls her fingers
through our hair & we smooth stone sleep. 
you have eyes like smooth stones, 
like pillowcases turned 
inside out. i want to crawl into
you like an attic, like a chandelier 
made of spoons. how cold do you 
like the world when you sleep?
do you know what i mean when i say
that i miss you & i'm holding you
right here? i wrote this poem 
first on the ceiling & now with
you sleeping a room away. i slept
next to a boy in high school & 
he had a king size bed that somehow
still felt a world too small, his skin
turning gritty like wet sand.
i didn't wash up on a shore,  i broke.
each ring you wear makes a planet 
when you sleep. i name them & forget.
to show you i'd have to have
waken you up, so i let you sleep.
the rain falls beneath the pillow,
i kiss your shoulder, your elbow,
an arrow sticking out of the box spring.
i sleep with a girl in a twin-size bed. 
are you rain?
are you rain? are you rain?