He is a tight balloon
dangling his poetry in the air.

I am full of want.

I breathe in his stasis
and bend to stretch across the grass.

He laughs without motion,
blowing streams of hot air across my ribs,
bowing in my body.

My neck curves in the green.

He has phrases that have pushed me,
forming apple after apple to rest upon my forehead.

I would pick his metaphor clean from the sky,
sink in my teeth,
and eat,

but he will not speak.

He has lost his words in the colder water,
sending up an arm, a shoe, to tread upstream.

Used to his still, his new movements sadden me.
His mind is the river that floods by my house.

I am bare-footed,
open and spread across the bank,
as his words dive off a duck’s back,

wetting free feather.

Somehow he will find his way back to me,
to dry his hair in the shelter of my lap.

I will scoop sand over his calm face,
burying his clean.

We are sparks, content with only closeness,
as neither of us have any intentions to ignite.

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