Breathing in your body, my lungs
fill and deflate in time with
the piano notes never played
by your long, capable fingers.
You do not learn through music tones,
so I reach you through the wires
that are your veins
and ride among cells
that dance along the enclosed canals.
It’s beautiful / twisted:
the flow of liquid from your mouth
all the way down.
I haven’t yet reached every place it’s settled –
the dips of bones. muscle. thin skin.

Your system is failing –
immunities shocked by outsider
armies / sharing mouth space and opening my insides / our
bodies chase things away
like they’re running from them.
The miles burn muscles
while we compete for who is faster,
Strands of hair breaking like ribbons at
finish lines / around ponytails – it all cascades down
like a victory.

You prefer my hair out.
Wild and threatening, my curls
embrace your poethands and curve
around each non-piano-playing finger.
We do not speak; we write to each other.
Conversations burned into paper
with explosive pens.
They grow in place of our fingernails
and only run out of ink
when we run out of ourselves -

When did your body become a man’s?
I’m losing images of littleboyyou:
shy and uncertain and incomplete.
I’m not sure what to do with this portrait
dripping fresh paint. This new version:
All angles. Form. Strength.
You never fail to leave me
surprised (in the best and worst ways)
I take you in
and out seeps change, I will never
be able to contain you,
will I?