When you kissed my too-dry lips
on our mini-mountain in the middle of central park,
I fought hard to keep my eyes shut.
To allow my imagination to caress
the heat from your cheeks,
matching the rhythm of your taste buds,
pretending I couldn’t feel your hungry teeth
or the diffused bomb in the bottom of my chest.
My lips fought to find balance
slipping in and out of your pout
you call me a natural
as I wipe the taste of her name
from the corners of my mouth
and give you my laugh
because I did not know what to do
with hands that wanted to be held.
I give you that I am green
and you return a deep red
that I did not know I craved
until I watched the sun fall
between the bones of an insomniac.