There are snowflakes on my tongue I want to melt on your inner thigh.
There’s a man in the moon I still call Jesus some nights.
My body is a temple where I have burned so many scriptures
I see smoke everytime I look in the mirror.
Kiss me where the flames turn blue.
Tell me there are places on my skin that look exactly like the sky
And your heart is a jet plane heavy with the weight of businessmen and crying babies
But you’re done running for the exit row ‘cause god knows
we have smoked the stars.
Made wishes on falling ashes.
Something’s gotta give.
It may as well be our fingers.
Till my ribs become piano keys
Till there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungs
‘Cause I’m breakin old patterns.
For anyone else I would rhyme and end this line with Saturn.
But you are not the type to wear rings
And I’m not the type to wanna celebrate forever
When right now is forever
Walking down the isle unnoticed
Sing me lullabies at dawn when I’ve been up all night painting the wind
To remind myself that things are moving.
We were talking mountains and snowboards when you said,
“I’ll teach you how to fall”
I said, “I bet you will”
But my bruises will be half moons hanging above cornfields that yield only crop circles.
You are a mystery I promise I will never try to solve.
What science calls science I have always called miracle.
And since we met there have been days when I have said thank you so many times I could watch all my broken pieces curling into seeds to plant themselves in the bellies of saxophones on street corners in New Orleans.
You can find music in places where you cannot find air.
So when you say you are homesick for my skin
my body sends you postcards from all its darkest corners and prays you can still see the sun climbing my bones like octaves ‘cause baby
there were nights when my pulse did not win.
Nights when my heartbeat stained the kitchen floor bright red.
But you once told me
we are most alive in that split second before death.
So I call ugly a four letter word
And tell you I am tired of hearing myself swear.
Is in the eye of the beholder
You hold me so well that I am almost convinced
that smoke in the mirror might one day