Something tells me I'm dying

It's three a.m. and he wants to go home.

His whisper is the ocean in a conch,
that distant beach where he dug up crabs,
watched the water dry to salt on his skin.

Tomorrow, I'll book our flight:
this is how lies begin the day. My arm
on his chest keeps him from rising.

Perhaps it's true I am his prison.
He knows the chair can hold a body,
recalls my name after I say it.

Let me sit by the window; I'll stay up
while you sleep: moonlight traces lines
on his face, culs-de-sac of memory.

He would leave as soon as I close
my eyes, bang his fists against locked
doors, break a glass or two.

This isn't the first time I pinch myself
awake: he waits behind curtains,
the fingers on his lap like a pit of snakes.
It's three a.m. and he wants to go home.