I want to wake up with my arms asleep because they have been trapped under your back all night.
(The coast of your bones shows through your skin as I collect broken seashells. We see what is on the surface, we know what is below.)
We crawl into the ball of sheets like a hermit crab into a tin can. Can we dispose what we've outgrown?
I float. The mattress is a float. We are in a parade in the middle of the sea and how we ended up here is of little concern. How we keep from drowning occupies our mind and time.
(You are a waveless coast, I can't find my way back home.)
Sunken ships are recovered for their scrap metal value or to clear channels. There are veins leading to your heart, there are ways to claim what little ground exists.
I wake up with my arms asleep and empty. I've always had poor circulation.