I love you not like a loaded gun, 
except if it shoots flowers.

The bang of petals against my own temples 
causes me to open my mouth.

I wonder what would happen to you.

The slow motion click of metamorphosis 
acting like Time as a dancer.

Spring is the secret name enshrined 
along each of your eyelashes.

I only imagine this because I was discussing 
the creativity of coy fish with the moon and 
she mentioned you as a field of iris.

My mouth began to vibrate and I turned into a bee, 
kaleidoscope vision.

My lips have never been sensitive enough 
to taste the evolution of a heart.

But now I am full of wonderment 
over and over again.

May I honey in your presence?

You inspire me, ink in the notebook, 
hands wholly caressing stretch marks.

I am healing and it is a community 
celebration, personal collectivity.

My head rests on moss and I resume with her.

Crescent in one blink and full in the next, 
there is no reason to decide who is actually turning.

From scales to mosaics, we whisper stained glass 
to each other in no ways related to religious doctrines.

Our throats are cathedrals and our paragraphs are 
small houses, precise and comforting.

She seems fascinated with you and I flow: 
is it you searching, unknowingly, for eye contact?

This time, you are a singularly shining apple, grasping 
all of the light from your immediate horizon.

Gravity is side stepping you so he can practice 
seconds and falling with the other dancer.

Are you aware of your own weight in the absence?

In the most pure hypothesis, 
I hear your shifting presence.

She says that you are perpetually interesting 
and I laugh because you fill me with marks.

Questions, it would seem, are the quiet pursuit 
of romantics and I 
am not a bullet.

ILJ 1.0: sometime in HS // or 2014