My fingers soak in spit

As I trace the outline of you

In your Sunday best,

The shape of your every side,

On the glassy palette

Of my eyes. The colors will

Start to blend like cheap

Acrylics once I fail to dam

The waterfall and condensation,

Reclamation of 12 years of feelings.

Yet waking up from the world’s

Longest dream, I am awake and

Always blinking away the disbelief

Like scrubbing rust from a turning

And burning engine, hand slick with

Grease and sweat and, honestly,

Only half-upset,

But blinking it all away:

The fog I’d started calling home,

The moisture on my fingerprints,

The shake within my very bones,

And the shape that stayed

And made me write all of this.