WINTER

He is that illustration drawn in pencil

where once there was a window.

Now color.

A shape so unrehearsed,

he is sprouting unknown shades

referring to themselves

in the third person.

Monochromes wait for him to dry.

New color.

A paint truck spilled in summer.

I want to roll in his thunder, dry off

by walking backwards against the rain.

Leave my chest blushing

early plucked, in season,

out of ripe.

I am the between-cartwheels-and-summersaults

of his out-of-breath childhood memories.

Catch me.

Between the U and the S,

sky falls,

we slip into symphonic blues

like honey woven hula-hoops.

His tongue stirs water in my hole, hollow.

I blow kiss bubbles through

to meet his cracked windpipes.

Mouth to mouth fizz fights.

May I always decorate him

without seasonal reasoning.

I see life as a glass half-full squared,

but only when he’s in it.

Bring two straws.