i
was
rain,
the first
time
i met
you.

On the night
the sky caught
fire
bordered on both
sides by black—
cumulus and
wind-torn bay—
you told me
slowly
I was becoming
more
to you and
sugar welled up
warm and sticky
to glue this tongue
to its bed.
My mouth
is molasses so
I’ll write instead
about the heat
of your hand
on my thigh.

I hope I smell
like green things
earthy, growing
damp and pungent
after rain
the scent of
stretching
myself in
imperceptible
amounts, always
a little new.

part of you
for me anyway
will always be there
beautiful
on a light and
tumble journey
watching me
watch your lashes
paint zebra stripes
down your cheekbones.
we’ll run from budgies
and make friends
with otters
out-stretched, grinning
tickling the noses
of long-necked
ungulates and
hunting for imaginary
creatures between
cages