There’s something about the way
your skin spills onto mine
that undoes the tourniquet
I’ve tied right under my chest –
the one that usually stops
the insects in my stomach
from flying above the waistline
(or even developing past the
caterpillar stage). You leave me
hypnagogic, so much so that I have
only just noticed that there are
flowers blooming on the walls
of my stomach and there are
grape vines lining the bones of
my ribs and there are endless
gardens inhaling and exhaling
underneath my skin and these
butterflies you’ve helped grow,
my beauty, are flying up my esophagus
and falling like kisses on your lips and
pouring like poetry on my notebooks and
yes, every time I taste you,
and every single time I write you out,
I lose a few hundred pairs of wings,
but I don’t think
we should be alarmed.
I think you’re their mating season.
Solecisms 