When you laid down on my bed,
you asked if you should take your shoes off.
I said no,
though what I really meant was
right now my blood is chlorophyll and
your skin is an orchid petal
and if you so much as untie a shoelace,
there’s a good chance I’ll photosynthesize.
Daffodil. Sun Ray.
Shape-Shifter.
There was a night last fall
where we sat on the floor of your room
and got dizzy from $10 gin, or
the mitosis of easily bruised lips.
Our bodies as stems, pressed together.
It’s spring now and
I tried writing you a poem about condensation but
I’m still figuring out how to conserve water.
There are days when my skin is more desert
than tropic.
Part of me wants your hands on my body
like you’re learning what it means to grow something
into full bloom.
Another part of me
is waiting for the rains.