day 21; chained to sleep

Chained to sleep, a black garden chases me.
Whisper-light music echoes cold in the undergrowth,
and my throat is in shreds from my singing.
I see you there in the misty morning rain:
your hair, wet and curled—the petals of your face.
Let me kiss that mouth—a bee starved for nectar;
let me sing again, bare-breasted and sore;
let me dream of a thousand little deaths like this,
your panting harmonious to mine.