Tang-bite of salt like ayran on my tongue
plays at my edges, the lap
of a tide that inches closer before swallowing.

You are too much. I want to sweeten you, breathe
sugar into your ear and warm you
between my hands but you sleep sideways
in bed and I can’t bring myself to wake you
from fitful dreams. You told me you dreamt

of crows. Scavengers over the bodies of children
who would never grow to be valedictorian, a bride,
the president. You say there’s no rhyme
to it but you revel in the real poeticism
your dreams carry -- the symbolism draped
with metaphor and layer after layer of meaning.
You are too much. I lie beside you and you nestle

up next to me, your shoulders at my shoulders, your hips
at my hips, your knees at my knees and your breath
warming me. You are the most comfortable friend.
And I am not enough.