Your hand cascades up and down your throatline, and I feel your presence across the room and the statelines become irrelevant.

I feel you bubble like a liquid inside and outside of what I can consume.

Eyes burn when I close them, and the redish black shapes dance underneath my eyelids (street lights)

lamps

Air on this part of my skin teases me, and the thought of you makes me lighter until I gasp,
I need something to keep me on the floor.

I don't like being high above the city.

How many times have I told you, to give me music that has only a few notes and doesn't

erupt my thoughts with your thoughts,

you consume me, playing at carefree flutters of lightness but I've read your words through the language and tongues of others with the same bodies stuck in a life made for smiling.

I know you are on display for epochs and stripping down so the shadows cast light on your body, sway. "See? I have shadows." You need them to be observed.

The wood is smooth from the times you have spun around it to the music that they make you perform to.

I know the
ways you drown.

Yet, you beg me to lay with you in the sun, pretending the problem is the way the sun caresses your shoulder blades, lashing out and pinning your breastbone to the ground. "I am on the ground." We convince each other. Touch.

I can't stop watching you dance, and the other patrons have returned to flea-infested investments and the angry wails of tired wives with tired mouths. It is time to go, but you pull the chair up to the sun, and touch the same smooth surface, winding your body, casting shadows and begging me to suffer synesthesia. You perform, and the sounds that you have composed fill the room and I find myself drifting up over us, not able to hear your composition without my skin and flesh shaking in anticipation and confusion. You pin me to my own body but I cannot stay put, I am not able, you have filled every shiver with music, and my body never had a chance.