I don’t know how falling for you began.
You flip a light switch and your eyes
become the surface of the sea framing sun rays
and moon dusts. Last night, you ran a red light
and the highway cement turned into a hundred
paperclips people leave behind when they are too busy
with their hands and thumbprints, forgetting and fading,
I can almost hear the road breathing.
The first time we met, you could have been someone
pulled out of a dreamscape, but you were telling me
about the songs you listened to
when you’re tired of hearing people talk about
mouths and toenails and all I could manage to ask
you was, “Have you been living underwater?
Have you ever thought about breathing me instead?”