the fish bowl

your head on my chest seems
beheaded but beautiful,
balancing there like a fish bowl.
as you sleep, dreams dart about
inside it, like fish.
I hold it, feel its volume and roundness
as if assessing a bowling ball,
lightly press it as if searching
for a trap door.
somewhere inside there,
you keep tears,
but they’re dormant for now,
hibernating and as salt-free
as tap water.
I mustn’t breathe, or your head
might roll off my chest.
I inhale and exhale less
than the moth on my window.