Humidity
Updated: Mar 26

We bend like parentheses,
enclosing each other's asides.
Every adjustment of your lips mean
more words that I can extract
before you swallow them.
I measure your hand against mine.
Our heart lines overlap.
The fan, meanwhile,
turns out one more rotation.
You tap out morse code on my hips
and I drink lukewarm tap water
out of a wine glass, my upper lip
lingering on the dry rim as though
it were your mouth.
Our eyes exchange ellipses.
The wall is cold against my back.
Perhaps the sun comes up, but
Your blinds censor the light.
We wouldn't know.
The room is reduced to
the color of a kiwi’s skin.
Above the windows, bullets of firefly-
coloured light, just committed little vessels
glow obediently.
The sheets are discarded like huge
palm fronds on the rainforest floor.
And when we go later