“We are more than just lovers,”

she proclaims, and sugar clings

to her lips like epsom salt, bitter and grit.

He peers at her over his newspaper

but sees through the hopeful heart,

the endlessness of blue.

He remarks, "that's nice"

and thumbs through the stocks,

while she wills the lemony light to stretch

beyond the windowsill

into the cobwebs of his soul.

She is a caged bird, beating against his ribs.

a metronome, swaying to the beat of his heart.