You lay your quick horses in my lap;
I think of how I would rather sleep,
but I say nothing aloud:

I don't believe in being pretty anymore
or know why I watch you read in bed.
We are simple:

There is nothing between us,
we are merely skin -
little-trained of more.

I shift my head,
see the compliments of the lamp's shine
strong against the light and dark of your face-

I want to lay against your back,
and urge your horses to gallop.
Instead, I give you my back.

We close our books and eyes -
I want to be beautiful,
but I say nothing aloud.

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