The woman in the green blouse

is becoming a thing.

I think of her

in the quiet place

between midnight

and morning,

ponder the smooth space

below her collarbone,

and the pale nail polish

she chose that night.

Abject longing

is a dress I wear well,

and I wonder

if she’s living still,

with a beating heart

encased in a rib cage.

Fumbling at the edge of fitful sleep,

I speculate

what she would feel like doing,

what she would feel like,

and what

I

would feel.