Annabelle
Christopher
opens me up
like a room
I never knew I had.
Inside
that room is a me
who laughs
and kisses his neck
and combs his hair
with my fingers.
Last night
walking from
his house to mine,
after rehearsal,
counting our steps
but losing track
after two thousand,
the numbers trailing
away in giggles
that turned to kisses
Christopher
said, let’s kiss
every prime number
so we did: 1, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37
until the kisses grew
too far between.
Let’s kiss every
even number, I said
so we did, kissing
every second step
until we were at my door,
the light in my mom’s
room telling me she
was up, waiting.
Hiding
behind a bush
Christopher asked
if I knew how far
we were from
Venus, and when I
shook my head he said,
40,400,000 kilometers
which is how far I feel
from you when you’re here
and I’m at home.
We kissed
behind the bush, away
from the light until
we heard the front
door open and saw
my mom sniff
the night air, as if
she could smell
our wanting
each other
so bad.
Christopher
said 480 degrees—
that’s the temperature
of two things:
Venus and me
right now
