my lids close and your eyes open:
silt-rich and promise-thick,
chocolate pools for wildflowers
if I could only
stay
and
watch.
I blink—you ringlet up,
snail-curled inside your shell. A spiral
I can’t pick from
endless, shapeless sands.

But when I write—I feel you,
fingers small and fat in mine,
we ink each word together
we make sticky prints in sap.

Who are we, are we starfish?
Hand-cups sucked together fast?
I taste your salt
I smell your tang
Why
do
you
never
last?