His fingers lean into one another, woven
Into a thatched tent, bonfire ready
Flames like acrobats that flip and tease and twist.
Steely strings coil into tight little springs
Inside his eyes, tiny spools wound
Around and around, spinning like pinwheels.
I contemplate the hollowed sunken motion of his cheek;
The hallowed boundary of his jaw,
Angled, harsh, and jutting.
We are cracked, like the book on the table
A snaking river running through its spine
White, spindled wrinkle.
Lullabies that lick my tongue, promises that thicken,
Pleas that warp my lips into a pucker
A smile cinched at the center.
Submit to the madness—I'll admit that I am
Smitten with solemn boy I hardly know
Watching roses growing in my eyes.
His face a grave,
He's the mistake I can't wait to make.