No language. Just late morning light glazed in the hairs on your skin, set in the sweat of my pillow. I don’t need you to brush your teeth— in fact, I don’t need you to get up at all; I have practiced poise for this like I practice music. There’s a string section of dust motes passing in front of the window as the cat walks across the sill. Each pawprint a syllable in a word I dare not say, or a record of what happens here. Of what wasn’t heard. No need for consonance; I quarter-rest next to you all morning waiting for the coda, bring the reed to my lips before our bodies' chorus. ____
Jacob Rivers is the author of the chapbook Eros the Length of a Sentence. He manages a global humanities network at The Hannah Arendt Center, Bard College, and lives in Hudson, NY.