you hung peach tea-lights
from my ribs spoke across
the plates and ceramic cups
filled with single origin topped
with daylight and smiled down
at my fingertips which sounded
something like silver spoons in
homemade jam jars or wheat
toast singing straight out of
the oven---but you're still
there blooming out of a
black lacquer chair
in dreams that smell
like pancakes and butter
you're there, somewhere
smiling at my fingertips