the clouds mouth at the wind,
missing her sweet scent just barely
as she whispers on by. in the grass,
below, the two of us do not miss
our mark— we are a
perfect bullseye— and the clouds
can only watch in jealousy. they are
an unwilling audience to your
sticky lips on my jaw, just
resting there, just tasting the
condensation on my skin
like there's never been
a sweeter nectar (though
it may just be sweat).
i'll tell you a secret: i put on my favorite perfume,
gave some to the wind, and her
hands touched my cheeks as
she passed on by, giving me a gift
even as she was on her
way out. maybe she thanked
me, but i didn't hear.
you told me i smelled nice that morning,
hugged me real tight with
your nose in my neck. high above, the clouds
tried to give the wind a kiss, but she
was much too quick for them
to catch.
