you are asleep in the car on a random street in south philly, chair back and soft snore. i move as carefully as i did on the bus two days ago, when the first three-year-old that ever fell asleep on me relied on the hollow spaces in my heart thrumming louder than my discomfort.

you stay asleep under my fluid jerky readjusting movements. three unattractive latino men walk by, and i lay as awkwardly as i can across the central console: my body as close to yours as i can, one arm on your stomach and the other–

the other comes up behind the back of your chair. it rests on fine felt at least 6 inches from your actual back. but i am holding you here, this mess of an embrace. i stay longer than my limbs allow.