Brick sand skin feels like silk against mine,
you hum and whisper in rhythmic rhyme.
Softened syllables float on stone,
firecracker heart against my spine.
My ego swells in dull kitchen light,
auburn assumptions climb to your height.
A glance like oil on rusted bones,
you give me an apple, ask to bite.
Look to you slowly, asking the price,
four lungs interlaced, “don’t ask me twice”.
Our wavering eyes vary in tone,
so we inhale, exhale, inhale, thrice.
Porcelain Prose 