I meet her at the inhale.

Coral pink lips parted, she makes no effort at rushing

to correct my lungs.

A step closer to the required rope lets me immerse

myself in momentary detail. 

Monuments to precision and I-know-you-up-close. 

While her gloss was once smooth, I can now 

match the holes in my flesh to hers. 

I suppose as I grow up, I too, am fading—

all the once unbothered paint chips of me 

drifting apart. 

Tectonic crumbs of skin.

She looks a bit like you, my best friend says,

a visitor with hands full of ticket stubs. 

Like you when you don’t want your picture taken. 

And it’s a half truth. I used to run around in circles when 

someone took out a camera

to avoid my scrubbed pink face trapped in 

anyone’s frame. 

Still, I disagree with my friend. The drops of color my eyes

took in has made it’s way to my mind,

festered in there like a welcome stranger.

The velvet-black of the background

invades all my synapses.

The girl doesn’t mind, I say. She is happy where she is.

Cream rising in her cheeks, a stack of contrasts

above her head, chunky clothes swallowing

her arms. 

Something shiny dangling from her earlobe. 

I meet her at the inhale.

Exchanging sunken eyes,

a kind of kindred lullaby

where we walk in the dusty daylight and admit

the signs of last evening shine

like glow-in-the-dark stars on our faces.

I see seraphim tinting those parted lips

and I know

I will never grow tired of her. 

Oh, as long as this crumbled masterpiece lives, 

I will never grow tired of her.