People ask
about the fireworks,
the sparks, the shooting stars.
"Did you feel it?" They ask,
vaguely expectant, eyebrows falling
back to their polite place when you
shake your head.
Lips and saliva, you scoff.
Random tongues. It's not the Fourth of July.
You fall asleep amidst the self-talk
and dream of meteors.
Then one night you look up
from behind your smudged glasses
to find him
staring back, past your iris
and down your spine, grabbing
hold of something warm,
and lips cling to each other
with a strangely perfect
desperation
and it's not like fireworks
at all, but rushing water, crashing
against your skin as you
search for breath,
and when the current pulls
you to the edge
of the waterfall
you press tighter
and wait
to soar.