the anatomy of your enamel is a gregarious combination of sunshine and pouring sweat.
Queen Anne's Lace is lining Prom West like a gospel chorus,
and your violets are screaming an unheard passion.

my hideous self-deprecation is a mute, static television signal in your ever-glowing radius-
a presence growing slowly and humbly, yet erupting all at once like a plentiful vegetable garden-
tomato plants, rosemary, and your Grand Canyon-eyes of brightness in full bloom.

it is here where your adjectives become potent antihistamines,
where these action words are soft fingernails on my scalp,
where your histories write textbooks of moon cycles and tiger lilies.

your palms on my chest and lips on the soft spots,
your amber irises are the key to the city.

I will dance with this infinity-
with each crack in your palm and rose in your heart,
under these golden, Northern streetlights for
the rest of time.

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