Marigold blossoming,

and a desiccated throat exhaling to a crescendo before

the gentle squeeze of your hands pulls me

out of silk paisley sheets,

good morning trickling down my chin

as I crawl back to a mouthful of oxytocin,

our sticky limbs French braided into a luscious mess and

my fingertips wild and wandering about

this masterpiece of faded copper pixels…

sunken elbow, palm cradling lightheadedness and

I'm taken back to that night when

English bitter still on my breath as

a belligerent mist of caramelized espresso had my obsession

lured up a battered staircase,

footsteps and squeaky squeals in tangled harmony.

some faint, sweet, musty vanilla charmed my senses,

a single heartbeat and fingertips

were meticulously traveling walls of wrinkled spines.

political science. sci-fi. women's studies.

psychology. tortoiseshell frames mounted on Rainier cherry dimples…

blink

your bruised and motherly hand settling on my flanneled back

b l i n k

and you spoke words I could not grasp

drowned by the gusting and

gusting and

gusting of mariachi bands with their

violins and

trumpets and

vihuelas and

guitarróns and

serenades while

dark fleshed plums chiseled into

thousands of microscopic

hearts clouding what was left of my eyesight, blushing

camellias clinging to every dent my hollow chest had to offer, tongue

melting under creamed cinnamon glaze…

(it's fair to say that my shelves have never borne this many books)

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