by Aki Schilz
or toggles (remember those?)
smooth as bullets in your hands.
Storm’s a-coming, you tell me, solemnly,
and I smile into the blue of you – it’s all I see.
And you haven’t a clue
how I think of you at night
when my breath steams the windows
and I make a glasshouse out of this room;
smear hand-prints into the wet of you
lick salt from the windowsill corners and
I can almost taste the sweat of you.
opening hungry mouths to the spring rain.
But your lips, my love, are on the other side
of every window pane.