we stand in the center of the bridge, raising Montrose over 59.
i'm on your shoulders, singing songs in Spanish and waking the neighbors.

you let me press my thighs against your neck, your cheeks
(it's not the first time)
you let my voice raise upwards, my hands rest on your thick black hair.

cars race beneath us in oblivion, and we're holding our breath still.
it's a funny thing, relationships,
as each day goes past, it's easier to see beauty as ordinary
and "day to day" becomes this vacuum for the beauty of this chaos.

but to this day my tongue craves the salt of your skin, and
to this day, in self preservation, we hold up our walls of pride and speculation,
we act like we are in transience even when lying still
only thing i hear is your breath, moving through the curtains like freefalling light.

outside there is a man playing piano, and he has composed our sonatas of bee stings and serenades of loneliness

you are the kite flyer,
and you roll up my string carefully, delicately
and more often than not, you release me to the wind

i find my bliss
and i shall not be cold
for inside me is the sun.