Us, cloaked beneath the digital smokescreen
ensconcing in the other
treading in our most fralid thoughts—
the inquisitor and the scholar
before slipping back on a lemon tart
giggling softly in the dark
A trip with you wherever we go
feels like coming home
Me, having been bound
to your orbit
If I stop running around
would I fall in?
Would you want our collision? Or
would you say
you have enough craters
You, an intrepid kind of blue
in all your past-hoods
having been left more septarium
than a September?
What if both parties are waiting
for the other?
A game of chicken with no winners
How long can a flame sparkle
if no one leaps in it?
Driftward souls grasping the air
the gods sigh understandingly
praying that you’ll hold me tighter
as I unfurl into your hand, as you
breathe your quietest whisper