In my hands our hair blends together
suspended by cries getting higher & higher
the colors lose meaning between fingers
your hands making the most of a fidgety soul.
My ribcage is the mousetrap that ate the beating canary,
spring-loaded mouths clench the mixing metaphors.
I've stopped caring about being obvious
just being there & there & there,
fully living in our skins,
making every movement a journey
which refuses to be anything but about itself.
When the destination found our bodies
sweet yellow meaning flew singing from our chests.