Literacy

I can't separate myself
from you in writing
or in mind.
I smudge black ink
into calligraphic,
unrecognizable marks
on your skin—
dragon tattoos in red
and silver ballpoint pen.
Give me lessons
to write between
X and O, context.
Give yourself some
reasoning between
here and the next
pull-off gas station—
I fall asleep
with my shirt sliding
off my shoulders,
wrinkled into those
marks on your hands.
Gentle and failing
to smell like anyone else.
It's all hypothetical,
but your searching eyes
give me belief
that they are us,
and the children
I name when
I write lullabies,
the same.
But I can live
with hypothetical—
Late passing headlights.
Flares in the dusty
rolled windows.
The clear-stained
"life is too short"
rests lightly in our
palms.