we can’t sleep.
She gets out of bed to paint:
scents of turpentine and Chanel No 5
roll me out of bed to write.
We work in the same space
drawn together by something funky
on the radio—horns, piano,
then Norah Jones.
She reads over my shoulder, steals
some words for her canvas, scripts
them down the side of a collage
filled with the city’s night fog.
A good start before we grab
a couple more hours of shuteye.
Her hair pinned up spiky,
blush of paint on her cheek,
telltale spot of lapis on my foot
from her “hit and run” kiss.
We hold hands to still them.
Awake again, we check on what the night’s
urgency wrought, two strangers
to someone else’s creativity.
My words, her art—
we claim them ours.