i can't sleep on nights when
the temperatures are too high.
charles's law was not wrong
when it said that gases expand
when they're heated.
it turns out that words do too.

or maybe it's not the words
that are gaseous, bursting
through my subconscious
like fireworks on fourths
you wish you'd missed.

the thoughts behind the words,
they're what i cannot escape.
the dimension beneath expression
and release, the tides that begin
near my heart but never quite
reach a shoreline to crash on.

i've heard that heat waves
**** more people than any
other natural disaster, yet
they trace my skin at night
and i swear, i've never felt
more awake.

the earthquake falters,
but still i crumble.

it turns out what i felt
had nothing to do with

numbers on a
richter scale,

though it
devastated me
just the same.

i love like someone who has been sent out on a mission,
even though espionage now exists through a computer screen
and the wars of our country have long since turned hot.

i love like i have a hidden wire for a heart,
with another's voice rattling through my bones:
a casual touch here, a kiss there, maybe even a smile.
be careful though, someone is always watching.

i love like you have a roll of film in your pocket
that i need to obtain, whatever it takes.
so i'll laugh at your jokes and run my hand down
your coat lining until i taste the secrets you keep there.

i love like someone will review the tapes later
and share in the inside joke of rustling chiffon
against skin, and the punchlines you missed
while you were staring into my eyes.

i love like a character i've invented specifically for you,
a girl that exists only inside of your mind.

i kiss like all the girls you remember and sound like
all of the moments you cannot forget.

and when we're done, you will feel like you're the one
who has cracked this foreign code wide open
and left her smile on the floor for the world to see.
but i'll sit in silence, looking at my empty hands and realizing
there was never an operative in loving you.

one summer, you volunteered
to teach me how to swim, saying:
i can show you everything
from backstroke to freestyle,
and when you're tired, you will learn
to tuck air into your pockets
so when the waves rush in,
they will be the ones gasping for breath.

they trained you to be alert, wary.
to keep an eye on the children playing
tag in the shallows, and especially on
the older woman awaiting the next tide.
they taught you how to lift your eyes up,
while still keeping your mind on the ground.
they taught you to listen to pulses and breaths,
and to know what it takes to keep a heart alive.

i thought you were trained for this.

but love caught you distracted,
in a torrent that swept all your knowledge
into the open sea, your heart along with it.
he dragged you into the waves and
kissed oxygen into your mouth
every time the water's chill
danced down your spine.

and when you finally resurfaced,
i had to describe to you what the sun
looked like from beyond the sand.

you told me about the first day,
when they stood before you
and announced the most important
lesson of lifeguarding:
always save yourself first.

sometimes i wish you'd forget about
30:2 and buoys and boys named marcus,
and memorize that instead.

firefly lights are the most efficient in the world
and produce no wasted heat,
yet i imagine one would still burn my tongue
if i held it in my mouth to keep from speaking.

or maybe i should be more like a firefly
and communicate solely through light.
a flash of envy here, a flicker of sorrow there,
my happiness spelled out in a chemical morse code.

tap a firefly egg carefully enough and it glows.
a kiss on my neck, and i may do the same.
but give me sharp words or bruised heartbeats,
and the taste of poison will never leave your tongue.

you see, a firefly's average lifespan is two months,
and its average love story even shorter.
still, it must mean something to find the one
with whom you can rival a constellation
as you dance together at night.

sometimes you show me photos
of the places you've been
and spout off stories of
how the tops of mountains
taste differently on the other side
of the ocean or how you saw
exactly the kind of dress i would love
in the window of a shop in japan.

but let me tell you,
every time i've tried to capture a moment,
and bottle it back to be relived in the
comforts of your living room,
the film always turns out blank.

your breath traces symbols on my skin,
highlighting key points on a map
that you've long since memorized.
but my arms are not a turnstile you
can pass through to arrive somewhere new.

it seems i've forgotten that
one heart cannot create a new time zone,
no matter how furiously it beats or
from how far away you can hear its echo.

when i was little, i used to
be afraid that if i cried too much,
i would shrivel up into nothing.
it was only in elementary school,
when i learned that human beings
are made of seventy percent water,
that i realized no one could ever
cry enough tears to leave only
a mouthful of dust behind.
no matter how much sorrow
you stirred out from under your skin,
there would always be just
enough left behind to dissolve
the next breath of oxygen.