she’s bright lunacy – not a simple touch,
when stars design extravagance
to lighten rib, hip with a taunt of violent
breath sparking yet another comet
he sleeps adequately:
night’s a measured arm-length, dreams
well, they might talk about all that,
consider it without emotion’s flagrant
turmoil melting flimsy sheets
forget me now 
I like this.
I know I don’t say much in comments.
Adequately. It’s never been highly sought after…to be adequate, to do anything adequately. That one word says so much. As does that. All that which might be spoken, if only in prounouns and adjectives like year old candles which have lost all their scent and sit wickless and anemic…a tomb of dead spiders.
Melt the sheets. Let it rain fire from our hair. All that branding our skin in complex touch. Wilting, we sleep soundly.
Lovely poem!
Oh wow, Annie – i think you wrote this poem better in your comment!!
AWESOME response, thank you!