When I came home that night,
you were sprawled across the front porch swing
mumbling songs in that blurry tongue you get when you’ve had
too much to drink,
foot swinging carelessly between cracks in the wooden planks.
You looked up and smiled sloppily at your own reflection in my glasses
and the stars pricked holes in the darkness
and even the moths fumbling around the streetlamps seemed to say
Yes yes yes yes in the beat of their powdery wings.

     There is a pattern here,
but math was never my forté,
and logic has just recently started to slip from my grasp.
I never know where I am anymore,
stopping to think about it,
and tripping across shadows and cracks in the sidewalk
is starting to feel more and more like flying.
This can’t be a good sign.

     Things that never seemed important before
have started to catch at the corners of my eyes
gathering like praying congregations
and blinding my peripheral vision.
Your presence is making a slow difference, and as hard as I try
not to notice, the choir swells in whitecapped waves
whenever your golden hand brushes my white white skin,
traceries of violet veins pulsing like tiny rapids beneath the surface.