There is a delicacy
to her hand falling
onto his thigh,
pale edges curving
onto the denim,
shining there
clear as glass

Her tongue
sheltered against
her cheek,
painting clouds
onto the roof
of her mouth,
she's breathing in
the thickest fog

Their fingertips
in the dust, etched
onto the windowsill --
someday they'll be
blown away,
curious children
or anxious mother
clearing away the dirt
of their past

Her dreams
poured softly
into a Mason jar,
his ideas
sifted coolly
through a strainer,
their ghosts pass
through the kitchen
faint as shadows

The bones of her hips
bowl like cradles,
carrying the grief
of impermanence,
sheltering the hope
that someone will remember
the days that have passed

Dots of paint
staining the carpet
will preserve her breath,
folding out into the fog