Between us, 

words drill their tummies with a needle 

and crochet themselves 

over the threads that connect 

our morning breath. 


Shallow words, 

but ours.

Our concave sounds, 

bellybuttons bounce on our sleepy string, 

beads reading

happy morning 

and good Monday 

and I dreamt my leg 

traced your inner thigh in your sleep, 

that I imagined your naked limbs 

were tree branches, barren now 

in winter, bristling splinters, 

but come springtime, 

will bear emerald buds 

and drip drip in sap—

you may make me sneeze 

but if I hold you tight now 

I might somehow fill me with you, 

so my insides don’t fight against

the pine cones that are a part of you. 


Our hi, hellos

and blessed day

weigh down the taut twine connecting us, 

careen in the breeze

or ceiling fan, 

straining our thin thread, 

the tightrope 

on which our good mornings teeter

can you hear it whine under our breathing? 


If our threads snap, 

and these words we’ve made

downpour to our kitchen tile

like the monsoon our weatherman promised, 

will you still graze my hip with your mouth 

and murmur good night when the evening comes?