Fugitives.

Things fray,

but you sit perfectly against my skin.
It was music you know,
the way you first murmured my name;
poetry on a blank page.
It filled this once empty gallon drum
I had sitting beneath my ribcage.
Rest your eyes lover,

rest your doubtless mind aswell;
I took my first real breath
when you slipped your boots
off on my bedroom floor.