I fell asleep whispering your name
and woke doing the same
Have you choked on the sun?
I am sketching needy hearts into my hands
and rescuing dreams with tea leaves
Hopeful, wanting, hoping, wantful
Mountains converge
and our lips are
so far apart
Perhaps, this time, they are real wounds
disguised as fleshy hyperboles
Written about restlessly, melted candles
with congealed memory resting on the desk
The spinning cups on the table;
that is us, dear, that is us

-c.j.