a poem a day for a year #198

by Amy Turn Sharp


I get fixated on the corner of your mouth, the smallest of things.
The way you clear your throat, eat apples.
Way down in the deep of night, after our clothes have fallen off
and the moon pours through the window like milk,
I watch you sleep and I can still remember who you are.
I can still find you.
I can stop time, break clocks.