Cloud Serum
The part where you’ve closed
Your eyes and everything
Floats. Falling towards
The ceiling. The days slipping
Further away from you.
Lapping at the shore in
Thin waves. Whispers
That press up close
Then slip gently
Off your skin.
A taste of salt
As the minutes condense and
Nestle in your pores.
The air sharper on your tongue.
All the layers
You can still scrape off.
In slow drift
At the
Cusp of something whole.