February chatters in the
hollow of my cheeks.
Sounds like hallway whispers,
we went out with a flash.
Like nothing, comparisons pale in
your subterranean brainwaves.
And I am so very strung out on
Your Hair.

Pieces of glass fall from the film
above our church steeple skulls.
And sometimes this weather is
far too temperate, too mild to taste.
But it's tastes. And so it's metallic bolts
painting our tongues, some new and
glorious rendezvous held just past your lips.

Your mouth is a cave I crawl in to.