You stand in the mirror and the light shines
From in front of you;
You've become more of a silhouette
Than a person.
You run your fingers through your hair
As you press strands between
Hot metal
And heart between
Teeth.

Your grandmother called you
Mara Bird
And I think the name is fitting:
Curls dance across your shoulders
And down your back
Like birds flitting across water's surface;
The hum that finds its way
From the atrium of your mouth
And into the space around us
Resembles those of songbirds
Whose tunes are audible
Only to those who are really listening.
(And I want to tell you that
I am really listening).

Sometimes I peel oranges
So the remnants will
Hide beneath the
Half-moon of my fingernails,
And I will smell of citrus
For the day.
My friends used to call me orange peel,
Do you remember that?
Your hands are sweet like mine, too,
When they are veiled in confidence
And nimble like the legs of a
Ballerina.
I did ballet as a child,
I can show you a pirouette
Or an arabesque,
And my fingers can play Arabesque
On the piano, too.
Sixteenth note runs
Remind me of children in the moonlight
Chasing fireflies and
Running in the grass.
You call to me,
I think we should join them—
I think we should join them,
You call.

or-ange, mango,  
banana too,  
hell-bent on regretting you.  
campfire-chair-sitting on hardwood floors  
in a stranger's home, i think.  
turn off the lights, it's raining.  
i had some to drink (not enough)  
but you had to drive  
but so did i.  
turn off the lights, it's raining  
on the bannister,  
your piano-key-fingers cascading over my  
carpals, metacarpals, phalanges too.  
topple me into a room  
but today it's not for laundry,  
‘cause the only thing that's getting washed away
is my record of not saying  
i love you (in my head, because
strangers
don't say that to each other).  
you lassoed me in and we fell  
into the empty hangers that i pushed away from you;  
shadows on a skeleton’s scapula.  
tabloids never told me that three months’ salary couldn't  
buy the rights to the song  
of your heart beating darkly in your chest.  
turn off the lights, it's raining  
and you can't see the way i  
feel you.

Dancesong soul your
gentle yet competent –oh so competent—
fingers are mesmerizing with
chipped baby blue nail polish
adorning the clear keratin
you often forget exists.

you also quickly cease to remember that
You Exist.  kaleidoscopic and symphonious
tremors of life can break
you in violent waves or soft
eucalyptus scented embraces
oscillating between ecstasy and
euphonious melancholy
is Okay.

raging with life
stay vivacious and full of
sweet scented oils and soft yet strong
--oh so strong—
unrelenting
music.

I have no filter
raw naked bare authentic exposed heart emotions
constantly pouring into the open
humans are desperate for fidelity
and I know nothing but that

let's play a game
I'll hold up your pride
keep the walls
and stand alone to watch
you do your dance
and dissipate
from mainstream
even more than you already have

I know what I want
let's play a game

I speak you
     (portuguese, spanish, english aside)
I speak you almost fluently
and now I wear shiny lip-gloss more often
since I'm speaking you without touch
for now. and
    distance is beautiful
  --like your knuckles
and the back of your taught ankles--
which are not noticed enough
(they hold everything together)

much like distance.

I think both are beautiful on you.