I hold beside my neck the weight of my bra straps.
Unwired, translucent, having a mix of peach and white.
My nights are not accustomed to sleeping without them.
So every eve fierce love we make. Too fierce that we forget.
And every dawn, one can observe remnants from the night before, hovering over the neck as a necklace.
With purple and blue beads drawn across a red line.
It must be some position in which we slept.
By days we are friends but by night we change sides and that’s it.
People say sleep is better without them.
Is it like some guy that I keep close all day but shouldn’t bring to bed?

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