Night moves over me (weight
I do not want),
presses itself against my lips
in a cold kiss, mouth sharp
as a knife blade.

Leaves move against the window,
so many hands sliding open-palmed across glass.
Hands made to hold precisely nothing,
like my hands,
hands that move through air
eloquently,
tongues shaping questions,
beginnings, asking
to be let in.

Held inside my own arms
I cannot be warmed, kneel
in the center of a bed
no longer safe.