When the seatbelt light turns off on the airplane and the sound reminds me of your smile

I can't count my eyelashes.
I'm nervous around his hands 
and arms and eyes.

The interstate illuminates 
our broken footpath 
and the way he stumbles up it,
cropped blond hair and glass-spider legs.

The sun sets early and rises even earlier.
The ocean can only be seen
when the light is low or split apart
or chewed on. 

The cat's claws are either 
between my eyes or toe nails. 

Sometimes, when it rains,
I wake in the night with my fingers in my mouth 
and my head twisted sideways,
window panes in my peripheral vision.  

It's hard to know the difference between
his lips and the bruise
of his whisper in the night:
"are you awake?".