Us-shaped Clouds

We lay on a blanket pretending we don't still feel
the lumps and pebbles in the small of our backs, as we drink each other
and maybe breathe each other too. I think of how
I do not recall knowing anyone before you, the way your eyes water a little
whenever you are happy, how you hold my hand differently
when you are sad. Even as our noses are side by side I contemplate
what could be beyond us – if we've anywhere left to go.

You say, “Look over there,” your finger pointing to our left,
“that one looks like a house.” I say I found it even though I never did.

And as you hover over me with your hair grazing my cheek, I look past
your flushed face, and the floating dandelion seeds, towards the sky, wondering why
I never identify all the different shapes that the others see. But maybe there are
no dinosaurs or apples or houses. Maybe clouds are just clouds.
Maybe we are definitely all we will ever be.