Breath,
fog like.

He opened his mouth to let them out.
Soft feathered and brown,
their wings catching light in two-toned vibrato.

Seconds passed and he found me.
Fingers threaded through a sinking sun,
whispering in faded pink,
the soul of warmth clinging like wet sugar to my palms.

Sleepily he came to me,
an image of forests and fruition.
The tide of his chest gently raised
and rolling into ocean grooves.

Reaching out, I felt for his face and found
a song like wet paint, his tactile wish
for the weight of a sigh to press against him,
curious and speaking in new language
of the motion of stars.