8 months.

Outside the sheets outside the window on the other side of the hills they’re coming. In bed there is a continent of you and I. Unlonely. Abundance. Flourishing. All the plates shift around us. But beneath us the grass grows. Even in the dry earth our grass grows. All our shelves are full of blue china. Outside the sheets, on the other side of the window the sun flashes its knives, juggling them to see us smile. On the other side of the hills they are waving their flags, firing the canon, stepping in time, their boots like thunderous handclaps. We know they are coming for us. This world we fill with ourselves. Our mouths, pitchers pouring our hearts into one another. I overflow. Everyday with what you give to me. They are coming. A brigade of light. They have been told of the two of us, of how powerful our wrists lay together. Steel rusts, gold bends. We are iron dipped in the fire of the suns. This brigade of light is opening their shirts, shedding their buttons, running faster to get to us sooner. The land is filled with the sounds of our gods. I can see their banners rippling outside the sheets, outside the window on the other side of the hills, rising into the sky I hear their trumpets, sounding all the songs that surround our room.