Humidity

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