her sweatshirt read “little flower blossom”
and her hair resembled a bat orchid; her upper lip
was pierced at each end where she smiled
but why can’t i forgive her for piercing my heart
with her eyes, green like the leaves in summer.

come over and discover me, i’m not as bad as they
say; and sometimes my imagination runs like
lions in the desert at a mile a minute, but now
all i can think about is the fact that your tongue
is touching mine and i’m breathing the air
you’re exhaling and our teeth are clattering
like crash cymbals on the top row of an orchestra
playing beethoven’s fifth opus, never symphonies.
we are music, my dear. your eyes are conductor;
my lips the drummer. you’re allowed to play my
heart like your favorite song.
un pas de plus.
un pas de plus.