I want to wear your dress-

I imagine the way the fabric will look

stretched across the flattened plane of my chest,

the collar low and open,

the same way it looks on yours.

The exhilaration of shame

will be sharpened,

the diffuse aching

becoming swallowed shards of glass:

brilliant, clear, tasting of ethanol.

It is easier to transpose the clothing

than the bodies.

You sense my exhaustion through our distance.

For a moment,

it is just us,

two images reflecting,

an eye seeing itself,

and it blooms open like an orchid.