Memories toss and spill across
my clattering tongue as I open
It still feels wet -
the paint on the rooms of those last moments
when you almost kissed me,
your mouth along the air but past me
and I recoiled like a shy sun into clouds.
My face dusky, my breath damp,
a catch and your pleas a hinge to hang on it.
Sometimes our conversations feel
like old notes pulled loose from
Shoved there in haste, stolen
minutes dreamed into their husks.
I want a vessel to our past;
I want to cross the taut second to your kiss
and see what it looks like
when we travel in our words, further
than we did.