fallen rover
I wear your words like a summer dress,
soft fabric stitched with your touch.
The wind catches in the folds,
pulls me toward you, away—
I hover like the wingbeat of some foolish moth.
The sun stains my skin ripe,
a strawberry bruise where your fingers pressed,
sweet and slow,
a warning or a promise—
I can never quite tell.
We drink daylight like stolen milk,
mouths sugared with something unnamed.
I plant my hands in the earth of your ribs,
wait for something to grow.
But time is fickle,
it unwinds in curls of ribbon,
in half-written letters,
in the space between yes and no.
Tell me, love,
if I wait long enough,
will the bruise bloom or fade?
fringe wadi