Light hits your forearms different

when you sleep in.

One arm thrown lazy 

                     over your head,

Speckled sun-kisses spread 

                careless

up from your wrists, spectral marks 

to trace with fingertips.

I spell my name, 

   dot 

to 

     dot, 

and long after the half moons of my nails fade from your shoulders,

I wonder if you will wake 

      one summer morning, 

flush of dreams still on your cheekbones, 

sheet 

     twisted 

           round your hips,

and find I was only a trick of the light.