You scooped all the foam from the Pacific, frothed
it into my favorite galaxy to soothe my throat.
I was black palms against your pink sun–
you the thump-thump bass as I drowned
in the bellow of our ballad, worn leather
mouthing words from neon lights.
Skyline clumped beneath the white crescents
of your nails; sprinkled into smog like glitter,
these two lungs exhaling ten intertwined fingers and
two murky spoonfuls of ramen– the creases
in your lips erasing condensation on my glass,
copper flecks etched into our forearms.
Our final swig of fermented something,
my irises vast and heavy, draped onto yours, and
with words cloaked in golden fog,
I realized that the only forces here are plates
that cross and quake– my teeth against your neck
couldn’t keep us spiraling down sun-drunk Malibu roads.
So we danced the floor away, floated atop the yarns
people weave out of metal mountains and framed parchment,
shades of day beyond our horizon–