TAR

His collar bone is my head rest;

he rattles as I settle, his spine

lines up with mine, his ribs

caging me in an embrace.

I wriggle my phalanges,

interweave them with his;

flexing, crackling sounds

and a dusty moan escapes

his hollow skull. I place my

thumb over a crack in his

brow, rub the outlines of

his right eye hole, breathing

back the same stale air.

I interlock our beings in such

a way that archaeologists

centuries from now will find

us and assume we were

actually attached at the hip.